


The Princess Thief

by olimakiella



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bounty Hunter, Cameos, Dutch, Français | French, Grifter(Thief), Heist, London, M/M, Muggles, Musee du Louvre Museum, Museums, but only easy phrases
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-06
Updated: 2012-11-06
Packaged: 2017-11-18 03:26:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/556365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olimakiella/pseuds/olimakiella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wednesday morning, 10:00 a.m., Musée du Louvre; the open exhibit of Leonardo da Vinci is suffused with smoke. Sully Wing Security has shut down the La Chapelle Exhibition Hall and ushered the public out, holding them on the ground floor. Security is praised when the smoke clears and everything is still in place. Crisis averted. Later, when they notice the young man on the security cameras exiting through the Pyramid with a casual grace and a small black canvas bag, they call the Police Nationale...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Princess Thief

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nenne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nenne/gifts), [Lordes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lordes/gifts), [Ling](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Ling).



> Disclaimer: All characters depicted in sexual situations are above the age of consent. Credit for information on minor characters and locations goes to the HP Lexicon and Google Maps (with Street View, your greatest friend for high street chases). Also, much thanks to Interpol, Scotland Yard, Artscope Insurance, The Crown Prosecution Service and the Musée du Louvre website for all of their invaluable information. Do NOT sue me, or arrest me. Please. Special thanks to the waiters of Pizza Express for the explanation of their tipping system. As a side note, I do not own iPod, iPad or any Apple products.
> 
> Warnings/Content Notes: Major AU. Not a French citizen! Mistakes in French Police policies are a direct result of this. Muggle! Wizarding world characters (but not all of them), Frenchaccent!Draco, gratuitous frustration, a little UST and smut, just because.
> 
> Author's Notes: I had so much fun writing this!!! I hope I did the prompt justice. Gratuitous use of characters for any and everything. This is an AU, so a lot of the characters you know and love will be behaving in ways that you probably wouldn’t recognise. appleling, my love, I tried to get in all of your prompt, but since British Law does not use Bounty Hunters, I have had to tweak it a little. Your prompt is still there and very recognisable, but that minor change is all that stands out, really.
> 
> I believe I may be on Scotland Yard’s Watch List because of all the things I looked up in the course of writing this. Please be informed that though some of the information, including names of public figures and places, is correct information, the context in which it is shown to you has been manipulated to make it sound interesting.  
> Also, languages are used in this fic. They are easy phrases, however, in French and Dutch. I had it coded but AO3 doesn't support it so that translations will appear in a pop up text box when you hover your mouse over the phrase or word, but the context is there so it's easy to understand. There is one lengthy conversation and it is in the first scene. Because of its uniqueness, it has been left in English and italicised for your convenience. It’s fiction, just pretend they are speaking French. Dutch translations have been done by the lovely katelinmr, French Translations by NP and the beta job has been done by the wonderful nenne. Thank you so much for all your help.

 

  
**  
** **_"Jumping at several small opportunities  
may get us there more quickly   
than waiting for one big one to come along."_  
Hugh Allen**

  
The alarm bells were surprising at first and the museum visitors turned around every which way to figure out what was going on. When they saw the Musée du Louvre guards moving around quickly, they began to panic. Then they saw the smoke. The Leonardo da Vinci exhibit in the La Chapelle Exhibition Hall was completely covered. Audible whispers of conspiracy, murder and theft filled the air as the visitors were directed by the guards, with swift efficiency, to follow the signs to the first floor, some die hard tourists fishing out their banned cameras to take surreptitious pictures of what could possibly be the first theft since the Corot debacle in 1998.   
  
Since arriving at work at seven that morning, Curator Madeleine Duprée knew it would just be one of those mornings. For the past three weeks, she'd had extensive talks with collectors and their insurance companies about lending their pieces for display. The most talked about, of course, was 'La Bella Principessa' a piece recently acquired from its current owner in Switzerland. As always, the usual arguments arose from University Professors and Art History Specialists, making claims about 'true ownership' and forensic evidence.   
  
Madeleine huffed as she made her way to the Security Office upstairs. They'd only been open for an hour and the exhibit was not due to open until ten o'clock. She checked her watch again. Quarter past ten. She rolled her eyes.  
  
" _Did we let anyone in before this happened_?" she said in fluent French.  
  
" _No, Miss Duprée, no visitors have entered the exhibition yet, we were waiting for your debrief before any VSOs were to go in._ " He turned to face her. " _Shall we call the Gendarmes?_ "  
  
Madeleine scanned the camera footage. Visiting Service Officers were responsible for tours of the building and security. It was only natural that they would wait for her to debrief them, as the exhibit had been her baby for the past month and a half. Squinting at the screen, she huffed again, giving up. The public were becoming restless outside. The doors were shut down and she could only conduct bag searches if she knew what was possibly missing. She would have to go down there. The smoke was so thick in the room on camera, it didn't even look like it was moving.  
  
She turned away, picking up her cup of coffee. " _No, the alarm will alert them, when they call, tell them to stand by. We don't want another Corot incident. If anything, we can pass it off as a drill._ "  
  
The smoke was a stagnant thing, until she went into it. She could already hear the shouts of fire being yelled from outside. She waited for the smoke to clear, directing the VSOs around her to use the fans they'd brought with them to help clear it as quickly as possible. She sent another batch outside to dissuade anyone from calling les sapeurs pompiers.  
  
The room was clear enough to see now and Madeleine walked the circuit, cataloguing everything she had come to know by heart. She let out a breath she did not know she'd been holding when she realised everything was in its place.  
  
" _Congratulations are in order,_ " she said and turned to her group of dedicated workers. " _We have avoided disaster and a potential nightmare in insurance claims and lawsuits._ " She then turned to Marc. " _You can let the public go._ " Marc nodded once and spoke into the radio stationed on his shoulder.  
  
Not ten minutes later, as she was walking back up the stairs with Marc after giving her heartfelt apology to the exhibition visitors, she was startled by the beep of her pager as Marc's radio blasted out a set of colourful curses so imaginative, he had to turn the volume all the way down. They paced themselves so as not to cause a commotion. Once they were out of the public eye, they began to run.  
  
" _What, what is it?_ " she said out of breath as soon as she opened the door.  
  
" _Miss Duprée, you need to see this._ " Marc took his seat next to his colleague, who rewound the scene on the screen. Madeleine leaned in. " _The computers picked up a face from the watch list we were given from Scotland Yard._ "  
  
A feeling of foreboding suddenly washed over her in a freezing wave. " _Who is it?_ "  
  
The Security Officer shook his head. " _There is no name attached, and the face is altered, but there is an eighty seven per cent match._ "   
  
Madeleine crossed her arms, hoping to abate the coldness. " _Bring it up._ " The picture on the screen was frozen into a still and Marc resolutely zoomed into the three-quarter profile of the man exiting the museum through the Pyramid entrance. The photograph given to them from the Yard was decidedly grainy, probably from one of their CCTV cameras they had littered across London, but it was clear enough to make out the three-quarter profile of a face. Though the man was wearing a hat, it was obvious his hair colour had changed. The brunet in the museum was not the blond in the grainy picture, but his face was more or less the same behind the sunglasses.  
  
" _Damn it._ " This day was not a total win after all. This was all she needed, one of the world's most wanted art thieves in her Museum during an attempted robbery. " _You can call the Gendarmes, now, Marc. And put in a call to Scotland Yard while you're at it._ "

 

" _Blaise, can you come in here for a moment?_ " The buzz of the intercom made Blaise Zabini startle, almost spilling his coffee all over the debriefs to the Robins case his boss had to confer on in an hour. Without answering, he simply got up and walked into Commander Ron Weasley's Office. Blaise had been through two Commanders in the last four years of him working there. One of them moved up to Deputy Assistant Commissioner and the other one... well. It was an unfortunate happening in their department, the Specialist Crime Directorate, whereby not all officers were 'clean', for lack of better words. The department dealt with wealthy criminals, after all. Once his predecessor had been stripped of his title and arrested, Weasley was the next in line to take the reins under Mark Rowley, their Head. If Blaise did say so himself, Weasley was the best one so far. He was the only one, for instance, that sent Blaise for coffee and actually gave him money to buy his own, plus anything else he wanted.

  
It was a major plus, according to the Administrative Assistant Brownie Points Scoring System, in the department.   
  
He wasn't even meant to be a personal assistant. On Weasley's first day, Blaise had been the first person Ron had met in the lifts. Following the boring encounter, Blaise had suddenly caught on to the fact that all correspondence for Weasley was, for some strange reason, coming through him for the rest of the day.   
  
He'd entered the small office of the Commander and been greeted with a sheepish smile. Blaise being the only person he knew, and a little overwhelmed at all the paperwork he was expected to do, Ron had given anyone who wanted to talk to him Blaise's name to call first. It was quite obvious the man needed help and Blaise wasn't so cold-hearted that he would leave the man stranded when he was so green. Two days later, when the riots started last year, he'd been lent to Weasley when most of the departments had become unified in their tasks. During the riots, People were looting and stealing like crazy and it wasn't limited to  _Morrisons_  and  _Savacenters_  this time. Ron had subsequently Christened his position by pursuing and arresting a young art thief, who'd used the mobs of teenagers polluting the streets as camouflage to break into the home of Matilda Therone, the owner of the ' _Maritime Painting_ ' by W. Byron.   
  
Blaise found himself saddled solely with the responsibility of receiving, sorting and distributing messages and correspondence from every rank in the damn building to Weasley. Even the scheduling of meetings... For that entire period  _everything_  came through Blaise, 'Temporary Administrative Assistant to Commander Weasley'. It turned into a long running joke, but for some reason, even one year later, no one ever stopped telling it.   
  
"Yes, Ron?" He'd been told to call the redhead 'Ron' instead of 'Commander' since he'd begun working that doomed Monday morning. He said the title made him feel like he was in the Navy. He got sea sick easily, he said. Blaise had simply rolled his eyes and continued telling him his morning schedule. Ron wasn't wearing his uniform today; though Blaise made sure an emergency shirt was hanging on the back of his door as usual, just in case.  
  
"I need you to call someone for me." Ron looked up from the paperwork on his desk and handed Blaise a slip of paper. "He probably won't answer the first two times, but keep at it. Eventually, he'll get irritated and swear at you for five minutes before he says hello."  
  
"Have I mentioned lately how charming your friends are, Sir?" Blaise said, taking the slip of paper and attaching it to his notebook with a paperclip. "Harry?" He looked up. "Are you sure you want to go down that road again, Sir?" He'd met Harry twice in the period of Ron being his boss. It was two times too many.   
  
"He owes me a favour."  
  
Blaise frowned, not impressed with Ron's reasoning. He shifted his weight, ignoring the thrill that Weasley's extra attention to the movement gave him. "He shot you in the leg. He owes you  _more_  than one favour."  
  
Ron waved off his concern. "He could have aimed higher."  
  
Blaise huffed. "He shouldn't have aimed  _at all_."  
  
Ron checked his watch. "Just call him, Blaise. Tell him to be here as soon as he can."  
  
Blaise narrowed his eyes. He'd only just got a favourable superior who didn't lord it over him and make him do ridiculous tasks because he could. All the other AOs were jealous of him. He liked it that way. "Why?"  
  
"I need his services."  
  
Blaise's eyes ran over the number again. On the O 2 network. He scoffed.  _Classy_. "A Bounty Hunter, though? Who are you after that you need one of them?" British Law didn't require them, so if he was being requested, it was under the table.  
  
Ron's eyebrows rose. "Is there a reason you're questioning me instead of going to a phone or eating your lunch?" he asked instead.  
  
Blaise narrowed his eyes. Ron knew he was in for another mini lecture. "I  _was_  eating my lunch when you called me in here. I'm questioning you because you are calling in the services of a, loosely titled, 'old friend', who shot you in the leg the last time you pissed him off."  
  
"Blaise." The words were a warning and a request, all wrapped up into one. It told Blaise that he didn't know what he was talking about, couldn't possibly because he didn't share the history the two best friends shared. Blaise was sure Ron would be an excellent father. Not even Blaise's mother had perfected a tone like that. Then again, she wasn't up for any Parental Unit of the Year awards, so...  
  
"Fine." He crossed his arms the best he could over his note pad. "But I won't be visiting you in hospital this time. You can pine there all by yourself." He left the room, shutting the door firmly behind him.  
  
Ron smirked. "Yes you will."

 

Harry Potter walked out of the building the fifth time his mobile vibrated in his pocket. He frowned down at the number. Only one person in the UK with access to a phone knew his number. "Fucking hell, Ron, I'm roaming, what the hell do you want?" he bit out.

  
" _Charming_ ," said a voice very unlike the redhead he knew.  
  
"Who is this?" Then it clicked. If Ron was the only person to have his phone number, there was only one person Ron would allow to call it for him. "Blaise. How are you?" he said with fake cheer. There was no love lost between them, that was for sure.  
  
" _Much better, now that my boss can walk._ " The voice was snappish.   
  
Harry winced. "I told you that was an accident." It wasn't, not really, but Ron owed him that shot.  
  
" _Mmhmm. Against my judgement, I have been told to inform you that Ron needs you here as soon as possible. You said you were roaming. Where are you?_ " It sounded like the office worker was eating. Likely a sandwich from up the road. He loved Pret a Manger.  
  
Harry looked around, saw the flashing lights of Caesar's Palace, the Giza Pyramids and The Eiffel Tower further on down the strip, backlit by the sunrise. He smiled as inspiration hit. "Paris."  
  
" _That's great_ ," Blaise said with very little enthusiasm. " _Then you need to hop on a train. He wants you here by tomorrow._ "   
  
Harry looked down at his watch. He was running on Pacific Daylight Time. It would take him twenty minutes to get back to his hotel room and get his things. He'd be able to get a Portkey to London within the hour. "I can be there by four your time."  
  
He could practically hear the eye roll. " _France is two hours ahead, does the Euro travel after five? Whatever, fantastic._ " It didn't sound too fantastic, but his job was done. That was the point of the call.  
  
Harry decided to roll his eyes too. "A pleasure, as always, to hear from you, Blaise." And because he simply couldn't help it, "Do try not to jump my best friend while I'm on my way, yeah? Be strong." In response, all he heard was a dial tone. Grinning, Harry tucked away his mobile and turned around to re-enter the casino. He'd been following Flint for the better part of two days. If he wanted the pay-out, he'd have to arrest him now.

 

Scotland Yard stood tall and clean above him when he turned off Victoria Street after Apparating into a small alley by Victoria Station. He hadn't been to London since last year, and a lot had changed. The revolving Scotland Yard sign he knew was gone and, when he looked around, he could see it spinning slowly in a plaza surrounded by tourists. When he looked closer, he noticed all three sides held the New Scotland Yard name, instead of the blue insignia Blair had stuck there. Impressed, he turned and looked up. The face of the building seemed different as well. Cleaner.

Harry glanced down at his clothes one last time before he went in. He'd cleaned up too. Desert air in Nevada got everywhere - sandy and humid. He could still feel a grainy sensation when he walked, like he'd spent the day at the beach and not rinsed off properly. He straightened his leather jacket and walked inside, the airy space making him ache in a way he always did when he remembered what his life could have been like if he'd stayed in the Met's service.  
  
The security officers at the front desk looked up at him as he approached. Harry pushed his sunglasses up onto the top of his head. "Good afternoon," he said brightly. "I'm here to see Ron Weasley, Commander Ron Weasley. I was told he'd be expecting me. You can probably call Blaise to find out." He smirked at the smile and nod he was given, knowing that they caught his joke.   
  
Minutes later, he was in a lift, leaning against the waist-high railing and humming the tune that used to play whenever he was in it. He frowned in disapproval, he'd liked that tune. Quite a lot had changed, then. He stepped out into a large, open office filled with police officers and administration staff. He looked around, eyes alighting on a plaque of information on the wall beside him when he turned to look down the corridor. At the top in bold Flaxman Typeface blared: ' **ECONOMIC AND SPECIALIST CRIME COMMAND** '. Underneath the title stood, ' **Head of the Specialist Crime Directorate: Assistant Commissioner Mark Rowley.** ' followed by a list of departments. Harry's head was spinning.  
  
"Bloody hell," he said to himself and stopped a passer-by. It just seemed easier. "Excuse me," he said, taking note of how she surreptitiously eyed his visitor's badge and likely filed away his facial description and how he was dressed in case she had to describe him to a sketch artist. Christ, England was  _harsh_  these days. "Could you tell me how to find Commander Ronald Weasley? I have a meeting with him."  
  
Her eyes lit with recognition and she pointed behind him down the corridor. "You're on the right floor, but the wrong department. You're looking for Arts and Antiques Unit, round that corner down there, straight ahead, you can't miss it. When you get there, ask for Blaise."  
  
He smiled to himself as she walked off and shook his head. "Ask for Blaise. I would if he wasn't such a bastard."

 

It was too much of a coincidence. An attempted robbery the same day a known art thief is seen leaving the scene of the crime with a black duffel bag in hand. It was odd and suspicious. Harry put down the two stills Ron had handed to him. "We had a debriefing with an Artscope insurance broker and a couple of officers in on the investigation."

  
"And why am I here? Britain doesn't use bounty hunters, she has the Met for that," he smiled, swinging in his revolving chair. Next to him, Blaise glared. Harry smiled at him too.  
  
Ron sighed and ran his hand down his face. He was behind his desk, his chair sideways and he turned his head to the window. It was still light out, would be until around eight tonight. So went the summer months. "Blaise, could you give us a minute? If you want, you can go on home." Blaise sat up straight, and with one last glare at Harry, left the room.  
  
Harry watched him go and gave a short, sharp laugh when the door was closed. "You do realise that one of these days you're going to come into work and he's going to be sitting in your chair, covered in whipped cream and cherries, waiting for you to lick it off, right?"  
  
Ron rolled his eyes and ignored his outburst altogether. "I need your... abilities."  
  
All humour was wiped off Harry's face in seconds. Eight years ago, fresh out of college and Met Training at the barracks, they'd been partnered as Constables. Three weeks in they were chasing a group of teenagers in Surrey, known for their thuggish behaviour, when one of them had spun a corner and fallen. Ron had gone for him, not noticing the young man had grabbed a broken bottle, lashing out to stab at him. The glass had cut deep at Ron's femoral artery. Ron was bleeding profusely. Harry had reacted rashly, tripping the boy and holding him there.  
  
It would have been all right, if he hadn't used magic to do it. Even better if he hadn't then proceeded to heal Ron to the best of his ability using magic too.  
  
Ron kept his secret, and Harry gave him space to deal with it. Everything seemed fine for a while, but eventually Ron started looking at him differently. Just like everyone who had ever found out about him looked at him differently. After a year and a half, a month after he passed his exam for Sergeant, he resigned. He left the country, planning to start over, but the urge to fight for injustice never left him. He couldn't always follow the law because his magical ability wouldn't let him. America's justice system allowed him to pursue that with bounty hunting. He passed the exam and training and got to use all his natural talents, blossoming into the man he was today.   
  
But Ron always felt guilty, he knew. Three years into it, Ron came to him, at that point a Chief Inspector, hoping to assuage his guilt. Harry, with little friends and none who  _knew_  him like Ron did, didn't send him away. They spent the night drinking, catching up and rebuilding their bridges with sturdier material. It didn't surprise him that Ron had somehow found out that the higher ranks of the Met, the Government and the Royal Family itself not only knew about magic, but  _worked alongside_  it too. He had an interesting story of a portrait at Downing Street that he was sure blinked at him. Harry couldn't be sure though, Ron was very drunk that night.  
  
Harry tensed. "For what exactly?"  
  
Ron smiled. "As a bounty hunter, mate." He rolled his eyes. Harry sighed, laughing a little. "You're at full liberty to use whatever you want to help, though. I just want him caught." He filed through some more photos. "These all came from the insurance company. There are others from other companies, but this one, apparently, has been hit more than once. They also have customers with  _specialised_  tastes."  
  
Harry sat forward, looking over all the paintings and antiques he was being shown. "You mean disgustingly expensive."  
  
Ron nodded in agreement. "I mean disgustingly expensive." He took out the last one. "This one was one of the few on loan. We think that he was after it. A man matching his description has been seen at the Louvre five times in recent months and twice in Switzerland, where the collector resides."  
  
Harry picked up the photograph. He cocked his head to the side. He was no expert on art but... " _La Bella Principessa_ ," he read and shrugged. "It's a girl, facing the side."  
  
Ron rolled his eyes. "It's an original Leonardo da Vinci in coloured chalks and ink, on vellum, with an estimated worth of over 160 million pounds. The insurance company is lucky it wasn't stolen. The current owner wouldn't be happy. It's their job, along with the Louvre Museum curator to ensure the safety in travel and exhibition."  
  
Harry cocked an eyebrow at the specialist knowledge. He huffed. "So you want me to find this blond-slash-brunet?" he picked up another picture. It looked like Barcelona. "Slash-redhead?" he added on, after looking at the wine red hair under the hat. This man liked hats.  
  
"Yeah. I want you to just stay on his case."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"Everyone else that's ever been employed: private detectives, investigators... you name it, they've been on it and then either given up, or quit. He's wanted for fifteen counts of theft and fraud now. The pay-out of the last piece he's suspected of having stolen was twenty-two thousand pounds. The insurance company paid, and then the owner received the painting back the next day, stating she did not receive any money." Harry whistled. "He's a hard man to track down and when you do, it's even harder to keep track of him. It's like he's always seven steps ahead, it's infuriating. I'm at my wits end trying to keep up. I lost track of him in Prague and the police there were less than helpful. Next thing I know, he shows up on a camera in Paris. It's ridiculous."  
  
"But surely he's better than that?" Harry said, putting down the photo. "He's a master at blending in, obviously, and of staying off-grid. Suddenly he's on camera? Albeit in disguise, but.... What -- is he bored?" he asked.  
  
Ron shrugged and leaned back in his chair. "I don't know. I don't care. I just want him behind bars. I have enough with this murder investigation suddenly landing on my desk." Ron rested his head in his hands, covered his face and sighed tiredly.  
  
Harry frowned, confused. "You work homicide, now?"  
  
Ron shook his head behind his hands and then dropped them. They folded on top of the desk. "No, but Artscope's Lead Agent for Arts and Antiques turned up dead three weeks ago. She was in charge of a batch being sent to Paris and the  _Principessa_  was among them. With the same painting being one of the group in danger of being stolen earlier today, I've been asked to confer. It's too much of a coincidence."  
  
Harry agreed. "You think the thief did it?"  
  
Ron scoffed. "They think so, but I don't, no. He's not that kind of thief." He rooted around for an old file in the dossier. "Example one: two years ago, we had a lucky break. He was caught on camera coming out of a five storey building, by  _abseiling_  down the side." He nodded in confirmation when Harry raised his eyebrows in stunned surprise. "Nearly landed on an old woman coming out. He unclasped himself, tucked everything away into his jacket and helped her cross the road." He tossed the document to him.  
  
Harry almost didn't want to ask. "Witness statement?"  
  
Ron snorted. "Eighty-nine year old Arabella Doreen Figg. Gave us the description of a 'very nice young man named Russell-'" He laughed with Harry as he continued his impression of the elderly woman. "'-with boundless respect for his elders, if a bit unconventional when leaving his flat. But it was far too dark to recognise anything else.'" He stopped his impression. "She spent the rest of the time describing the council estate she lived on and how they've been petitioning the Government for better lighting for months and, perhaps, if they want a better description, they should finally supply it." He took another document and slid it across the table.   
  
Harry was almost afraid to look. "Example two?"  
  
Ron nodded. "Example two. Richard Cummington, from Cumbria; bought, at auction, the world's most expensive chocolate pudding." He was trying not to snicker.  
  
Harry didn't blame him. "You are joking?" Harry said, sitting forward with a smile. He skimmed through the words, stopping at the staggering figure. "Twenty-two  _thousand_  quid?"  
  
Ron folded his arms over his chest and leaned back again. "Mmm. It was a World Record. Diamonds and gold, the works. Oh, and chocolate," he added on, as if he couldn't possibly leave it out.  
  
Harry shook his head in disbelief. "He stole it?" Ron nodded. "It says the case was settled."  
  
Ron rolled his eyes. He didn't sound pleased when he said, "Cummington didn't press charges."  
  
 _Four different types of the finest Belgian chocolate, flavoured with peach, orange and Scottish whiskey. Topped and decorated with edible gold-leaf, champagne caviar and a two karat diamond._  "Why the hell not?" If Harry had bought a pudding like that, he'd bloody well kill him for stealing it.   
  
Ron's voice was annoyed. "He hired him to see if he could do it." At Harry's incredulous scowl, he put up a forestalling hand. "Before you ask, he doesn't know how to contact him, just gave us a disconnected number for some man called Nathan, who gave it to him in case he ever wanted 'some harmless fun'."  
  
Harry's face was deadpan. "Harmless fun?"  
  
Ron shrugged. "People with money, they get their entertainment from strange places." Though Harry and Ron were two of those 'People with money', Ron's large family had always had the forward thinking to never squander their riches (unless they were begging forgiveness from self-exiled former friends) and Harry's had died before he had a chance to learn anything about money management. He'd been subjected to living in a home for boys until he was ten and then spent most of his teenage life as a ward of the court in a private boarding school until he was sixteen. Until he came of age, he had to appeal for money from his inheritance to pay for school before joining the Met. All the experience had taught him was to keep his cards close to his chest. He didn't flaunt because he didn't want the attention. That's what he had Ron for.  
  
"So, they pay people to steal from them? For entertainment?" It was too bizarre to be true.  
  
Ron shrugged. "To each their own. Apparently, the payment was that he got to eat it."  
  
Harry laughed and stood up, effectively ending the conversation. "Can I get copies of this, or is it confidential?"  
  
Ron looked up at him. "Well, I don't know. Can you promise me it won't go anywhere?"  
  
Harry gave him an obvious look. "Who am I going to be seeing?"  
  
"Not so worried about that, more about who'll be seeing you." He sighed when Harry gave him a questioning glance. "Never mind. I'll ask Blaise."  
  
Harry turned to the door as if he could still see the dark-skinned man on the other side. He glanced down at his watch; it was just after six. "I thought he went home?"  
  
Ron rolled his eyes and pressed the intercom buzzer on his desk. "Blaise, could you do a last round of copying for me before you leave?" He eyed Harry with a superior look when an affirmative answer came over clearly, following a short, sharp buzz of static.  
  
Harry shook his head. "What I wouldn't give for a willing sex slave like yours."  
  
Ron rolled his eyes. "I'm waiting for the day you get tired of that."  
  
Harry grinned. " _I'm_  waiting for the day you give in."

 

Stepping back from the largest available space of wall in his room at the bed and breakfast, Harry surveyed every still Ron had Blaise copy for him. The changes in each picture of the suspect were subtle, but different enough that if you didn't know what you were looking for, this man would easily blend in with the public. He was a chameleon. The pictures were not detailed enough that he could see eye colour and definition, but overall build, height and a tentative weight class could be estimated. He wasn't sure about his true hair colour either. It ranged from black to outright platinum blond and he paired the colours with different lengths, so they all suited him like he was born with it. None of the styles looked like wigs, so he could be dying his hair. He narrowed his eyes on the still at the  _Palais Royal Musée du Louvre_ , the Louvre Metro stop, on line one. The brunet had fled the scene of the crime once he realised his plan was botched, and made a clean, swift getaway with the cool efficiency of a ninja.

This man was not to be underestimated. If the Louvre had not installed the facial recognition software from Interpol into their security system two nights before, he wouldn't have been detected at all. Now, he'd gone underground, like he'd realised his mistake. It was only a matter of time before he struck again. The exhibit had been cut short, and the painting was being transported back to its current owner in Switzerland. Harry had to track down that owner tomorrow, to see if there was any connection between them, which meant he had to go to the insurance company for more information. For now, he'd get some sleep. Nevada was seven hours behind London and he'd been awake all night following and arresting Marcus Flint. The guy was big, and had put up a fight, too. His ribs still hurt a little. Bastard.  
  
He stripped off and collapsed back in his bed, tucking his wand under the mattress and his gun under the pillow and welcomed sleep.

 

He already knew it was not morning when he woke up again. It was dark outside, which meant it was definitely after nine, but before five. The second thing that came to mind was that he was restrained.

The third: there was someone on top of him.  
  
"No need to pretend, Bounty Hunter. I know you are awake."  
  
The voice was soft, deep, masculine and lined with a subtle hint of a French accent. He opened his eyes to see darkness and a faint outline of a face. The man leaned over and switched on the bedside lamp and settled back into place where he sat over Harry's stomach. There was a small content smile on his face and he leaned forward, resting his chin on his folded arms over Harry's chest. He sat surveying him in silence. Behind him, Harry could make out the pictures on the wall. All of them were a match to the man sitting on top of him, even down to the hat (knitted this time) and the only thing going through Harry mind was that the pictures did not do him justice. At all.  
  
"What do you want?" he said instead. It was best to get to the point. People that went to the trouble of concocting something like this always had a point to make.  
  
The man seemed surprised at what he said. " _Moi? Pas grand chose._ I simply came to see who they've sent after me this time." Harry was given a considering look. "You're shorter than I thought you would be." A small frown marred his brow. "Non, I am doing, as you yanks call it,  _Reconnaissance_ ," he stated with relish, his smile wide and bright, his eyes lit with childish excitement. Like this was a game for him.  
  
Harry scowled. "I'm not American."  
  
" _Non_ , I have just learned that you are not." The man sat up, his head tilting to the side. "I'm happy about that. Their answer to everything is guns. The English, they are more  _hands on_ , if you catch my drift." His lilting accent had Harry struggling to grasp what he was saying, and then he took in the smirk on the blond's face.  
  
Blond. Earlier in the day he'd been a brunet, he couldn't see any roots due to the hat, but, then again, if it was freshly dyed it wouldn't matter. "You're blond."  
  
Those eyes regarded him like a cat, judging and silent. "Very astute observation..." He picked up something beside them on the bed. Harry's badge. Harry noticed a few other items from his bag that must have been put there while he was sleeping. "Bounty Hunter Harry James Potter," the blond man read aloud. "I do hope they are paying you well for your skills." Harry didn't appreciate the smart comment and glared as the blond put the badge down and picked up the gun he'd stashed under his pillow. Harry spared a brief thought for his wand under the mattress. The man above him tutted. "This is all that American influence." He gestured to Harry with the gun clumsily. "You shouldn't carry things like this," he lectured. "Bad things happen around guns." Then, in a matter of seconds, he dismantled it like a pro and dropped the pieces on the floor. "Mmm," he purred, satisfied. "I saw your pictures on your... well, 'wall of me'." He turned stern. "I am  _not_  a hundred and eighty pounds, nor am I five nine.  _You_  are more five nine than I am,  _n'êtes-vous pas_?"  
  
Harry didn't know what that meant. "I'm five-eleven."  
  
The blond cocked an eyebrow. "In feet I am six-one and my eyes are grey, not ' _light, possibly blue._ '." He must have read the report, since he was obviously quoting from it. His accent made him sound curt and rather annoyed. He brushed a lock of black hair from Harry's eyes, staring at the odd shaped scar on his forehead curiously, but disregarded it. The leather of his gloves was soft, supple and worn. "Yours are very green, Mr Potter."  
  
"Do you have a reason for sitting on top of me?"  
  
A sly smile was his answer. "Well, parts of you seem to like me here." Harry fought the crimson blush he could feel in the heat of his face. He hadn't noticed, so caught up in the surprise and adrenaline rush of finding the man he was searching for within hours of being on the 'case'. The same hand brushed a lock of hair from the other side. "But let's forget about your little problem." He ignored Harry's scowl at the word 'little'. "Tell me, Mr Potter, do you want my name?" A soft smile accompanied the gesture.  
  
Harry gritted his teeth. "It would help," he said.  
  
Grey eyes narrowed in shrewd observation. "Mmm, no doubt." The blond sat up. "I shall make you a deal. I will give you my name, if you do not give it to  _them_ ,  _êtes-vous d'accord_?" He held out his hand to shake and then laughed and put it down. Harry didn't see what was so funny.  
  
"How do I know I can trust you with your name?"  
  
The blond hummed again, as if he could taste something resplendent. "Oh, you don't. But I will know if I can trust you with mine." He leaned forward, his hands resting either side of Harry's head. "Do. You. Agree?" he said slowly, as if he was repeating himself and Harry realised he was, since he must have said it in French moments before.  
  
"Fine," he grit out.  
  
That shrewd expression returned. "Very well." He got up. "Goodnight, Mr Potter.  
  
Harry was startled by the sudden movement. "Wait, your name!"  
  
The man smiled at him softly, fondly. He picked up a duffel bag from beside the bed. For a second, Harry thought it was his. The bag was common after all, and most likely the reason why the thief had chosen it. Then Harry recognised it as the bag in the photo on the wall. It was navy blue, so dark it looked black. "I already gave it to you. You simply have to find it." With that, he turned off the bedside lamp and left.  
  
Harry tugged at his restraints. "I'm still-" He stopped when the door shut. If he continued calling out, someone would come in and he'd have to explain why he was handcuffed to his bed. He sank down with a sigh, irritable and aroused. It was fucking ridiculous. He turned over, feeling the short chain twist uncomfortably. Using the only wandless spell he knew, he cast an  _Accio_. He could feel his wand move from its location under the mattress, useless to him when he couldn't hold it. In the darkness, he unlocked the handcuffs, the chain links clinking as he roughly pulled his hands apart.  
  
Harry paused, listening. That wasn't the chain clinking. He sat up and felt for the lamp switch. Anger was all he felt when he saw the keys for his handcuffs dangling on a piece of purple yarn attached to the bed frame. The same yarn he'd seen the owner of the Bed and Breakfast knitting with earlier in the day. He hadn't looked up when he found out he was handcuffed. He hadn't seen a point to it because looking didn't solve anything. That they were there the entire time the blond had been on top of him made him angrier than he could believe. That smirking shit had sat there amused the whole time. This was probably why. Him and his games. He'd bloody catch him if it was the last thing he did.

 

"I'm sorry, he did what?" Ron said to him as they sat in a corner booth of  _Wimpy's_. Harry had been craving a Bender Burger for months. One bite in, however, told him that more that the architecture in England had changed since he left. That and the prices. Jesus.

Harry's pride still chafed, and now his wallet was suffering too. "Let's just say I can fully appreciate my predecessors' efforts in tracking this French bastard down."  
  
Ron took a sip of his coffee. "So he is French then? Did you get a name?"   
  
Harry shook his head. He'd been over their short, infuriating conversation hundreds of times. "He said he gave it to me and I had to find it." Merlin, what he wouldn't give to put a tracking charm on the sly git.  
  
Ron sensed his dire mood, though really, it didn't take a genius to spot. "Bloody hell, mate. You look tense."  
  
Harry stared unblinking. When Ron still didn't show any insight to that ridiculous - but true - statement, he leaned forward to explain. With feeling. "He handcuffed me to my bed, with my own fucking handcuffs. I'm more than tense. I want to shoot him." He slammed down the salt.  
  
Ron visibly shifted. "Well, aim away from me, will you? Don't want any more 'accidents'."  
  
Harry rolled his eyes and picked up the black pepper for his chips. "How're things on your end, then?" he said, deciding to get off the topic of last night before he broke something.  
  
"Decidedly less efficient than yours," Ron replied, smiling when Harry snorted. "Since I let you take an unofficial handle with our suspect, I'm conferring more on the Robins case."  
  
Harry frowned and put down the black pepper. "Robins case?" he asked.  
  
"The insurance broker from Artscope that got killed. Demelza Robins. She actually went to our sister school across the heath. Couple years younger, though. Did Maths and Art for her A levels, among four others."  
  
"She did six A levels?" Harry asked in surprise. "Why?"  
  
Ron nodded and swallowed. "All A grades too."  
  
Shaking his head, Harry dipped a few chips in his ketchup. "Christ, what a waste." After that they ate in silence for a while.  
  
When he was done, Ron sat back and put down his napkin. "They're thinking it was an organised hit."  
  
Harry looked up from his last piece of speared sausage. "On an insurance broker?" he stated solemnly. Harry was losing his faith in the Service. Who was coming up with these theories? The last one had his late night visitor as a suspect. The one who helped old ladies cross roads and stole for harmless rich people with nothing to do.   
  
Then he thought of how effortlessly he'd dismantled his gun. But... no, he'd already stated, rather blatantly, his viewpoint on gun usage and insurance brokers didn't get murdered because of things like organised crime art collectors, not unless there were some shady under-the-table dealings.   
  
Ron seemed to know what he was thinking. "She was the Lead Agent in insuring an expensive piece of art that would be transported from Switzerland to Paris. The listing for the exhibit wasn't publicised yet."  
  
Alarm bells started going off in Harry's head, sounding a lot like the awesome tune of the seventies, 'Inside Job'. "Yeah, but since when is the mob interested in art?"  
  
Ron finished off his coffee. "The mob is interested in all kinds of things, Harry. To each their own, remember?"  
  
Harry supposed that was true. After all, if the wealthy entertained themselves with recreational larceny, the mob was allowed to covet priceless paintings and drawings in their spare time.

 

  


Three days later, Harry could have slapped himself. He'd been so busy trying to sift through their conversation for clues that he'd forgotten the blond must have had a look at all of his notes. He'd actually told him that he'd seen the pictures and corrected him on a lot of his mistakes in estimation. Harry hadn't counted on the fact that the blond would actually correct the mistakes  _on paper_ , too. He shook his head. It really was just a game to this man. He read through the descriptions, bypassing all the French exclamations of his weight and height and read through the additional information.

 _Graduate of Oxford, Art History._  That was a major advantage. If it was even true. Then again, he hadn't lied to Harry so far. At the bottom, just below where the blond had furiously scratched out Russell and Nathan, stood one word and Harry frowned at it. "Draco?" he pronounced aloud.  
  
What the hell kind of name was that?

 

Oxford University was of no help whatsoever, having never heard of anyone named Draco. Nor did they believe that Harry had any jurisdiction to search through their student database with a Bounty Hunter license from America. Due to it being the beginning of September and the onslaught of new students coming in for the new term, they were swamped as it was. In short, Harry was not welcome. At all. By the time he was done, Harry was glad to get out of the many twists, turns, corridors and alleys... Merlin, how did anyone get around there? He found a deserted lane and Apparated as quickly as he could to Bloomsbury. In his new hotel room at  _Thistle Bloomsbury Park_ , he looked around, making sure he was alone before he relaxed.

He took off his jacket and stared at his newly constructed 'Wall of Draco' as the blond had dubbed it. He was staring at it still when his stomach rumbled. He grabbed his jacket again and went downstairs. The main benefit of the hotel was that it was on a street filled with places to eat. He exited onto the main road and turned into the short populated alley to go straight into  _The Queen's Larder_. The cosy pub was warm inside, but he wanted to eat outside due to the nice weather, so he ordered quickly and went outside to wait.  
  
Just as he finished, he looked around at the scenery, eyeing the red phone box across the street next to the square and nearly coughed out all his food when he noticed the man hanging up the phone and walking out of it was Draco. He looked so normal, so  _ordinary_. If he hadn't been drawn by the blond glint of his hair he would never have recognised him. The blond hooked a small gift bag onto his wrist and shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. He turned around, walking across Queen's Square onto Great Ormond Street. Harry hadn't even noticed him walk into the phone box. He took a quick note of how the blond was dressed, a light jacket over jeans and a knit cap on his head. Harry raced inside to pay and raced back out again to follow at a distance on the other side of the road. He pulled down his sunglasses. He wished he had a hat of his own. Something told him, now that Draco had been so close, he'd spot him from a mile away if he turned around.  
  
Sometime later, following Draco  _into_  Great Ormond Street Hospital, it became obvious that the man knew where he was going. Harry pulled up short when he saw him walk onto  _Bumblebee Ward_  and greet the nurses like they were his best friends. Harry took off his jacket and waited.  
  
One woman, out of uniform, but still dressed smartly, seemed to be scolding him, but her eyes turned soft when he gave her a hug and presented her with the gift bag, after taking something out of it and putting it into his pocket. She held onto her anger a moment more, likely to tell him he couldn't buy her off with gifts, before grinning like a loon and holding out her hand for him to put on the bracelet.  
  
They spoke for a moment more, walking down the hall and turning the corner. Harry walked through the doors, onto the ward. The smell of the ward was the first thing to hit him. Harry had never liked hospitals. He hated them, in fact, ever since he was a small boy. Just the sight of one gave him hives.   
  
"Can I help you? Visiting times aren't until five, young man."  
  
Harry took off his sunglasses so that he could look the sturdy-looking nurse in the eye. He'd learned long ago that if he wanted anything from older women, they wanted to see all of him if they were expected to trust him, especially his eyes. He went for broke and played the tourist card. _Mark: Australian._  
  
"Oh, no - I'm sorry, I'm looking for Draco. I thought I saw him come in here. You see, he told me to meet him outside and I followed this guy that looked just like him and now I have no idea where I am." He gave a self-deprecating laugh to go with the out-of-his-depth anxiety.  _Widened green eyes, check. Orthodontically straightened smile, double-check._  
  
A hand moved to her chest. "Oh." He knew he had her when her eyes softened and her other hand moved to cover his forearm, recently tanned from Nevada. He smiled wider to let her know he appreciated the warmth of her tone. She was jelly in two minutes.   
  
"Draco is here, sweetheart, he just went down the hall. You need to look for the Hospital School. He went with one of our teachers there. Straight down, and to the right. It's the second door on your left."   
  
So Draco was his real name, or the name he gave to anyone that asked.   
  
"Thank you so much, I really appreciate it." When she was gone, he dropped his smile and stalked down the corridor, keeping an eye out for any blond thieves lurking around the corner. He looked into the room labelled 'Hospital School' and saw a group of children in there, but the brown haired woman wasn't present, nor was Draco.  
  
Undaunted, he continued down the hall, looking into windows until he spotted them standing inside a room filled with children. Looking up, he read 'Activity Room'. He rolled his eyes and walked inside. No one really noticed him, until everyone did.  
  
He made quite the picture glaring at Draco like that. The curly-haired woman looked up at the silence of the children and frowned at him. Draco looked up from the small blonde girl he was holding, seemed stunned, and then smirked. He handed the small girl to the teacher, exchanging a few quiet words with her, and walked over.  
  
"Are you here to place me under arrest, Mr Potter?" he said as he approached.  
  
"Nathaniel? What's going on?" Ah, the brown haired woman had followed him.  
  
"Nathaniel, is it?" Harry inquired, adding another name to the steadily growing list of aliases.  
  
The blond rolled his eyes and ignored him. "Hermione, this is Bounty Hunter Harry James Potter." Hermione's gaze snapped to him when he spoke, her brow furrowing in confusion. Draco gave her a significant look and her expression said she would leave it alone. For now.  
  
So, wife then.  
  
Hermione shifted the small girl on her hip and stuck out her hand to shake his, the silver bracelet shimmering in the artificial light. "Mr Potter."  
  
"Mrs..."  
  
She flushed. "Miss, I'm afraid. Granger, Hermione Granger."  
  
 _Huh, not a wife, then._  
  
"Mr Potter, meet my best friend in the whole world. She knows everything about me."  
  
Harry cocked an eyebrow. "Everything." That received a sharp look from the brunet.  
  
Draco eyed him with amusement. " _Everything_."  
  
"In that case, I believe Miss Granger and I need to talk."  
  
"Oh, of course. Though I must warn you, she has been trained by the best. Now, I'm going to make my rounds, unless you want to arrest me in front of my daughter and traumatise a group of sick children?"  
  
Harry's gaze zeroed in on the little blond girl in Hermione's arms. Her grey eyes watched him with interest, as young children do from the safety of their parents' arms.   
  
Parents.  
  
Her hair was blond, but it was quite obvious from the thickness of her curls, and the way she clung to Hermione, that the brunet was her mother. "I see. No, go ahead, we have plenty of time."  
  
Draco -- no,  _Nathaniel_  -- inclined his head once and set off around the room. Looking at the way he moved, and the way the children responded to him, it was obvious this was not his first time there. The children smiled and welcomed him into their groups with open arms, letting him sit down and play like an old friend returning from time away.  
  
"Twice a month." Harry turned to Hermione. She was watching the scene with as much shrewdness as her partner in crime. Her warm brown eyes turned on him. "He comes here twice a month, unless it's a special occasion, like a birthday," she said raising her wrist. Once again, his eyes caught on the silver bracelet on her wrist before her hand returned to hold up the young girl. "Emily Rose," he heard and raised his eyes to her again. "Her name is Emily Rose." Her head gestured to the little girl in her arms.  
  
Harry couldn't help but smile at the child when she giggled at him. "Is there a last name to go with that?"  
  
She seemed amused by his attempt to get information. "Granger." She turned and walked to the nurse's desk. "He believed it would be easier and safer that way. Keep people like you from getting to her, to us." She laughed. "Besides, he goes through so many names in a month, it's hard to keep track sometimes."  
  
"Tell me about it," Harry mumbled. "You know what he is."  
  
She laughed a delighted laugh. "My best friend and donor for my daughter can only visit me twice a month. I'd be an idiot if I didn't know what he was by now. What he does." She scoffed. " _He'd_  be an idiot if he didn't tell me." She watched her best friend for a moment as he moved on to another group, playing with colourful blocks. She grinned when Thomas, a young boy with a congenital disease, knocked all the blocks over and invited Nathaniel to sit with him and patiently begin to stack them up again. "I know what he does," she repeated and turned to Harry. "We get anonymous donations, big ones, and endless art supplies to the children's hospital to be spread around the wards, the school and the activity room." She sighed. "The last was a recent one, a nice hefty donation of twenty thousand from an anonymous party."  
  
Just like that, as the blocks fell over again and young Thomas giggled maniacally (with Nathaniel's help), Harry realised where all the money was going. He suddenly understood how no large sums of money were being deposited into bank accounts, domestic or foreign, to match the amounts stolen. No one would think to look into hospitals depositing money, and hospitals wouldn't look into anonymous donations. He shook his head in amusement.  
  
 _He thinks he's Robin Hood._  
  
Emily squirmed to get out of Hermione's grasp and the little girl immediately began making her way to her father, unable to stand all the laughter and fun with her father when she was not a part of the game. Nathaniel picked her up as soon as she was in grabbing distance and walked around with her, talking in hushed tones. Harry wondered if his daughter spoke French to him. Was he even French? The possibilities of the man's existence were mind boggling.  
  
The two blonds walked around an easel at the back where a young boy was drawing with chalk. DracoNathaniel smiled happily at the drawing the young boy was doing and Emily copied his expression. Harry noticed he didn't move closer like he did with the other children though. The blond reached into his pocket.  
  
Hermione leaned in conspiratorially. "That's Michael, he's fourteen." She tutted. "His parents transferred him here when his leukaemia came out of remission. He's been here for four years now, has a private room and everything. His parents pay for it all. This is his home for all intents and purposes. He was in a school for the gifted before he was transferred here. Nathaniel shouldn't have favourites, but Michael took a shining to him the first time he ever came here and he's been spoiling him ever since. He's aggressive with everyone else and only goes quiet when he can sit down and draw or paint. Oddly enough it's Nathaniel that got him into it. He came in one day to see Emily and took out a piece of paper and some pencils to draw her a picture. Michael got up and came over, sat down next to him and did the same thing. It was remarkable."  
  
"Why?" Harry asked, confused.  
  
"Michael's autistic," Hermione explained. "It's rare that he tolerates touch from anybody except those that he knows from his routines. We've been trying and only got him to move around when his parents were here. He's brilliant at it, though. Drawing and painting is all he does some days." Harry nodded along. "It figured Nathaniel would make a breakthrough without even trying. He's always been lucky like that. If he wasn't such a tricky bastard, he would have been eligible to adopt, but he can't. He would though, in a second." She had a warm smile on her face as she took in the scene.  
  
Harry turned to her, his body resting on his forearm as he leaned on the table. "You trying to appeal for him, then? Telling me he's got such a big heart?"  
  
Hermione eyed him like he'd grown another head. "Oh, dear, he has pissed you off, hasn't he?" She shook her head. "Nathan's heart is big, I won't dispute that, but it's also selfish. He's my best friend in all the ways it counts, and he gives me all I want, whenever I ask for it, but he's not perfect." She sighed. "I know it, and he knows it. And you've probably learned it by now." Leaning forward, Hermione rested her elbows on the table and brushed back a stray curl. "The beautiful thing about him is, he doesn't hide it unless he has to. His words are like tinfoil, then; they shine and cover things up **1**. Even though it gets him into trouble all the time."

 

"So, you like kids?" Harry asked him when they stepped outside into the evening sun.

Nathaniel turned to him. "And?"   
  
Harry shrugged. "And nothing, I was just asking."  
  
The blond watched him carefully, taking him in from head to toe. "Would you care for a drink, Mr Potter? Before you 'take me in'?"  
  
Harry rolled his eyes heavenward. "And give you a chance to get away,  _Nathaniel_?"  
  
The blond gave him an obvious look. "I have told you my name is Draco, and I am very sure a capable man such as yourself would be able to take little old me." Draco spread out his arms to show the litheness of his body. His legs were long. He'd probably get away if he ran, but if Harry kept him close...  
  
Harry felt like slapping himself.  _Oh my god, why am I considering this? How does he do that?_  "No, come on."  
  
The blond's eyes tracked over his shoulder minutely before coming back. Harry wasn't going to fall for that. "Really? I can't persuade you?"  
  
Harry gave him a stern look. "No. Move it."  
  
Nonchalantly, the blond shrugged. "Fine. Then I suggest you begin to run."  
  
"What-"  
  
"Oi! Malfoy!" Harry turned at the sight of a group of men walking up behind him. He turned back to Draco, to find out who they were, but the blond had already taken off up the road.  
  
"You have got to be fucking kidding me," he said as the group of thuggish men passed him by, running after the blond. One of them stopped next to him looking him up and down.  
  
"Who are you, then?" Harry was surprised by the thick Irish accent.  
  
"Er, I was asking for directions, mate," he said, pulling out his tourist card again. Instead of open and trusting, he shied away knowing what men like him were after. Power.  
  
He received a slap on the shoulder. "I suggest you check for your wallet, then,  _Mate_ ," the Irishman said, making fun of his fake accent. He walked off after the group that was already out of sight. As he walked, a black car drove up to him. Harry watched as he diverted and got in, the car speeding off up the road.  
  
"Absolutely fucking kidding me," Harry said in disbelief and walked back to his hotel.

 

It was raining the next time he saw him. He asked Robert, one of Ron's colleagues, if he knew any good bars. He needed a drink after the shitty week he'd had. The Dutchman had given him directions to the  _De Hems Dutch Bar_  in Westminster.

Harry nearly tripped over himself when he realised Draco-slash-Nathaniel was sitting there in a shadowy corner of the bar. The blond raised his drink when he noticed him and Harry walked over.  
  
"Fancy meeting you here, Mr Potter. Are you following me?" He signalled to the man behind the bar. "A beer for my friend, please." He turned back to Harry. "Are you here to arrest me, Mr Potter?"  
  
"Eventually. If I can ever keep my hands on you."  
  
A sly smile was his response. "Oh, that can be arranged."  
  
Harry shook his head, disregarding that low, sultry tone. "Who were those men the other day?"  
  
Nathaniel waved him off. "Meh, Irish mob. It's not important."  
  
Harry leaned back, the frown on his face signalling blatant disapproval. "The Irish mob? What on Earth do they want with you?" he asked.  
  
Apparently it was all the rage to avoid eye contact now. "I said it is not important." He did not look amused now.  
  
"It's not important," Harry repeated. "Fine. Is there anyone else after you I should know about?" He took a sip from his pint.  
  
A wineglass gestured about as Nathaniel spoke. "Besides Scotland Yard, Interpol, the Scottish Mob and you?" he replied, turning to stare at him. His eyes looked a little bloodshot. If he wasn't drunk, he was halfway there.  
  
"Interpol? Scottish-" He whistled. "Wow."  
  
"Mmm, let's just say, I cannot go to the Czech Republic, Mozambique or Sri Lanka anymore." He drained his glass and, immediately, a new one took its place without the blond having to order.  
  
Huh, good service. "What the hell did you do to Sri Lanka?"  
  
Nathaniel cocked an eyebrow and gave him a sly smile. "If you don't know, I assure you, I will not incriminate myself any more than I have already." His face became serious. "You will not interrogate me while I am relaxing, Mr Potter." His eyes were caught by something over Harry's shoulder and Harry turned, having learned his lesson the last time, to see a large man staring down at him.  
  
" _Valt deze man je lastig_?" he asked sternly, looking at Nathaniel, but gesturing to Harry. Confused, Harry turned to his pseudo-companion to find out what he said.  
  
Draco was eyeing him carefully. Harry began to get defensive, shown by how he straightened his back. " _Ja_ ," he said and turned his eyes to the man. " _En hij laat me niet met rust._ "  
  
Harry narrowed his eyes, not knowing what the blond had said, but knowing it was not in his favour when he got a finger poked into his shoulder, nudging him off his stool. "Jij. Naar buiten."  
  
Harry looked between the two of them. "What's he saying?"  
  
Draco smiled, but it was not the warm smile he knew. This one was cold and empty. "He said, get out. Are you deaf?" The smile deepened when Harry's posture and expression showed he'd noticed Draco's accent was now full and thick. And Dutch. He felt stiff, cold, betrayed. But Draco-Nathaniel-Nathan-Russell-Malfoy  _whatever his name was_ , made no promises. Harry knew that. He also never said he was French. "If you don't understand Dutch, next time don't come to a  _Dutch_  bar."  
  
The man poked his finger in Harry's shoulder again, turning his attention from the blond. " _Naar buiten._ "  
  
Harry raised his hands in the air. "Alright, already." He grabbed his jacket and stalked out. He turned back once to glare at the blond seated at the bar, but he was already gone.

 

"You should not upset Sven. He is a very opinionated man." Harry spun around from where he was fuming against a wall in the alley to see the most infuriating man on the planet leaning against the opposite wall. His bag was slung over his shoulders, the strap crossing his chest where his arms were folded. "And he's been plying me with drinks all night thinking he would get lucky. You encroached on his territory." The blond seemed less drunk, and Dutch, than before. The French accent was back like it had never left.

Harry saw red. " _You_. You are the most-" He dug in his pockets. "Turn around, whatever your name is."  
  
He got a look like he was a particularly slow child. "For the fourth time, my name is  _Draco_." He lengthened the pronunciation, as if it was that preventing Harry from remembering it and not the countless other aliases he'd learned in the past week. Draco raised his eyebrows. "And I beg your pardon?"  
  
Harry glared at him. "I am arresting you. Turn around."  
  
Draco rolled his eyes. "No need for that." He held out his hands. "Here." Harry paused, eyeing him speculatively. "Go ahead, arrest me."  
  
Harry held back for a second. Wariness did not begin to describe it. "What?"  
  
"Malfoy."  
  
Harry turned around to see a pair of men standing at the opening of the alley. He raised his head up to the heavens and stared at the cloudy sky. The rain was still falling and, though they had a little cover where they were, it didn't stop them from getting wet. He blinked repeatedly. "Who is  _this_ , now?" he asked, resigned this time.  
  
"That would be the Scottish Mob, Mr Potter." Draco craned his neck around him to look at the two men watching them both. "Not now, Cunningham, I'm busy getting arrested," he said, very matter of fact. He held out his hands again. "Go ahead, Mr Potter."  
  
The two men froze and frowned at them in suspicion, namely Harry. Harry turned to scowl at him making sure the handcuffs in his pockets were hidden. "Are you trying to get me killed?"  
  
Draco tutted. "Oh please. I think it takes much more than that to get you killed, Mr Potter."  
  
"Hey." They both paused in their argument to look at Cunningham. "Answer your phone, Malfoy."  
  
"Quoi?" Draco said and then jumped when his mobile began to ring. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans.  
  
"You have a phone?" Harry said as the blond pulled out a sleek, black, shiny mobile phone from his pocket.  
  
Draco stared at him like he was mad. "Of course I have a phone; we're in the twenty-first century. I have two." He pressed the screen. "Allo?" he said cheekily.  
  
" _Took quite a while to find you, Draco. Put it on speaker, would you?_ "  
  
"Oh, McLaggen." Draco pulled the phone away from his ear and touched the screen. "So nice to hear from you, again. Tell me, how did you get this number?" he inquired. Harry stood frozen for a second. McLaggen. He knew that name. He was the 'boss' of the Scottish Mob.  _Oh, for Christ's sake_.  
  
"Oh! And you're French now? Delightful." He certainly sounded delighted. Harry looked up from the phone in Draco's hand.  _So he isn't French._  " _I got it from your father, of course,_ " McLaggen tacked on at the end like it was a natural occurrence. The smile on Draco's face began to slip. " _I was looking for you for a while, it was pretty easy on paper since I know your name, but on the streets, a single, Caucasian, male graduate from Oxford, with a propensity for disguises... It's kind of hard. I had to get your attention somehow. Hence-_ " There was a pause and some scuffling around until Draco heard a low voice, one he would know anywhere.  
  
"Papa?" he said, his voice small.  
  
Harry frowned as he listened to the man on the phone. He wasn't saying much of anything, really, but Draco seemed to know the voice, even if he wasn't talking. Suddenly, Draco jumped, his hands going slack as he dropped the phone. That sound, before he dropped it. Harry would know it anywhere. A gun shot.  
  
"Do you get the message?" Cunningham asked. The phone on the wet ground was face down, but over the speaker Harry could hear that familiar voice.   
  
 _Please hang up and try your call again. Please hang up..._  
  
Draco's eyes were misty. His mouth was open and his chest seemed stuck, no air going in or out. He didn't speak; his voice didn't appear to be working for the first time since Harry met him. Draco nodded, his head jerking up and down in confirmation. The two men read the truth in his expression.  
  
"You have two weeks. McLaggen wants his money." Draco looked at them all, nodded again and fled, sparing only a glance for Harry before he ran out into the rain. The two Scottish men stared at him, expecting him to run after the blond. "Who are you, then?"  
  
Harry bent and picked up Draco's mobile. "Just a tourist," he said and walked out into the rain to hail a taxi.

 

"What do you think happened?" Ron asked him as they walked out onto Broadway and turned right at the corner of Christchurch Gardens. Harry shrugged. He knew what it sounded like. It sounded like Draco's father had been shot while he talked to him on the phone. "Hey." Ron's hand grasped his forearm to stop him before they crossed the road. "Are you okay?"

Harry took in a deep breath. "I think he heard his father get shot."  
  
Ron stared at him with bright blue eyes, his face serious. He cocked his head, gesturing to across the street. "Come on. What do you feel like, sandwich or pizza?" He turned around, laughing in surprise when he bumped into a young lady, almost bumping her into the road. "So sorry."  
  
"No problem, love," she said to him smiling and walked away.  
  
Harry eyed him, suddenly smiling. He smacked him on the chest. "Hey!"  
  
Ron jumped and turned to him. "What?"  
  
"You have a perfectly good assistant around the corner upstairs, stop being so greedy."  
  
Ron snorted and shook his head. "Come on. I need pizza." He walked directly into the Pizza Express.   
  
Pushing his sunglasses up onto the top of his head, Harry said, "You come here a lot, then?" as Ron waved over a waiter. He took one of the menus given to him with a smile and nodded when the waiter told them he'd give them a couple of minutes to decide.  
  
Ron had buried his nose in the menu, searching for that slice of heaven Blaise sometimes put on his desk without prompting. He had no idea what it was called, but he always said he would come here one day to figure it out. He just knew he would know it when he saw it. "No, but sometimes this is where my lunch come from."  
  
Harry didn't even try to hide his grin. "Ah, this is where Blaise does his afternoon run for you."  
  
"Harry, please, just shut up." Harry raised his hands and ordered a slice with the most meat on it with an Earl Grey tea when the waiter came back. The server took their orders and their menus and left.  
  
Once he was gone, Harry looked around. "Fine. On a safer front. How's your conferring case going?" He slouched over, resting his head on his folded arms. He looked outside to all the people passing by the window.  
  
Ron rolled his eyes. "Looking more, every day, like a mob hit."  
  
"Damn." They sat in silence. Harry loved that he could do that with Ron and it wouldn't be weird. They used to do this in school all the time. Companionship, sometimes, is better -- more soothing -- than conversation.  
  
"It was confirmed," Ron suddenly said. Harry sat up straight. Ron looked to have been holding that in for a while. "A body was dumped yesterday morning. I know it's not much to go on, but the name the Scot called him, Malfoy? The body was a middle aged man, identified as Lucius Abraxas Malfoy." The waiter came back, bringing them their order, and stumbled a little with the tray. He grinned nervously and pushed up his horn-rimmed glasses with a finger.  
  
"Sorry." His hands were trembling a little.  
  
"You okay?" Ron asked him, smiling a little to assuage his nerves.  
  
"First day," he said in a rush. "I'm getting a bit of heat from chef." He laughed again, shakily, full of nerves.  
  
"Hey, relax. We'll still give you a tip." Harry smiled. "If you give us our food."  
  
"Oh! Oh god, sorry!" he said and handed them their plates and their drinks. "You can call me if you need anything." Harry and Ron eyed their food and waited until their server left to switch their plates and cups. He probably wouldn't last much longer.  
  
"So, you get any further than 'mob hit'? No witnesses, nothing?" He bit into his hot slice and nearly moaned. That was so good. He licked his bottom lip to get off some of the grease and sucked his finger into his mouth to lick some off there too.  
  
Ron was gaping and looking around. "My God, you still eat like you're in a porno? You have to stop that, people are looking."  
  
Harry rolled his eyes and sipped on his tea looking out the window. "It's fine, people around here need some action anyway." Grimacing, he added more sugar and stirred it in.   
  
Ron sat back and ran his hands over his face. "I need a vacation."  
  
Harry laughed, coughing when a piece of his sandwich went down the wrong way. "Commanders don't take vacations, remember?" He parroted back to him. "But isn't that what Blaise is for? What's the point of a good looking assistant and a hollow desk if you're going to waste them?"  
  
"Really, Harry? Clinton jokes? Can you be any more American?" He coughed. "You think Blaise is attractive?"  
  
Harry gaped. "Holy Christ, you haven't _noticed_?" Harry eyed him like he was growing another head in front of him. "You  _do_  need a holiday," he added, laughing.  
  
Ron folded his arms and put down his napkin "Urgh. This job is driving me crazy."  
  
Harry licked his fingers and put down his napkin too. "I hear you. When I'm done here, I'm taking some 'me' time." Ron snorted. "Don't snort at me. Just because I don't sit behind a desk all day, doesn't mean my days are filled with my feet up. I run, nearly all the time, it's exhausting. Running down people, running down leads, most of which lead nowhere. The money is good, but compared to everything I have to do... Mate, I think I might retire early and just use out my parents' money the way I was supposed to."  
  
Ron looked wistfully in the air above Harry's head. "In the country Manor, surrounded by servants and girls."  
  
Harry laughed into his tea. "Speak for yourself. Boarding school did what it was supposed to with me."  
  
Ron laughed loudly and covered his mouth with his hand to stop himself from choking too loud on his coffee. A glass of water was suddenly in front of him and he turned to their waiter. "Thank you," he wheezed.  
  
The young man shook his head. "It's no problem. Can I get you gents anything else?"  
  
Harry was still watching Ron, amused at his choking fit, and shook his head. "Just the cheque, yeah?"  
  
"Sure, I'll be right back."  
  
Ron watched him go. "Well, he's grown into his role." He coughed lightly and chuckled. "I can't believe you just said that."  
  
Harry took his sunglasses off his head and ran a hand through his hair. "Why not, it's true. As much for me as it is for you. Though you're in denial because of your job."  
  
"I am not."  
  
Harry rolled his eyes and leaned forward. All the better to drive the point home. "Ron, you've got a hot assistant, who isn't even meant to be your assistant, doing everything for you. He stays evenings with you when he's supposed to finish at four. He goes out to get you lunch  _every day_  and you don't even have to tell him what you want. He does coffee runs for you. He's not even meant to do coffee runs for  _him_." Harry shook his head. "When are you going to notice he's got a thing for you? If you look closely, with your mad detective skills that I know are buried in there, somewhere, under the Commander, you'll see there's even an office pool."  
  
Ron looked up at him in dread. "There isn't."  
  
Harry finished off his dregs of tea. "Oh, mate, you've lost your touch."  
  
"Here you are." The bill was placed on the table between them. "I'll give you a minute, yeah? You won't run off or anything?" The waiter laughed at his joke, sincerely hoping it wasn't the truth.  
  
Harry looked up from Ron's red face. "Well, I'm a bounty hunter, and this red-faced young man here looking for his wallet, because lunch is on him, is a Commander in the Met."  
  
The waiter backed up a step, realising his joke had fallen flat. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"  
  
Harry put up a hand, stopping the apology. "Don't worry about it. Like I said, you'll get your tip, as soon as he fishes out the cash."  
  
Ron looked up through his lashes, his head still bent. "I think I left my wallet in the office."  
  
Harry turned from the waiter to his best friend. He smiled wryly. "If I had pound for every man who told me that."  
  
Ron looked up. "I mean it. I'm sorry. Next time?"   
  
Harry laughed and pulled out his own wallet. He opened it and winced. "You take credit cards, right?"  
  
The waiter nodded quickly. "Yeah. No cash?"  
  
Harry shook his head. "'fraid not. Someone else was supposed to be paying," he said with a pointed look at Ron, "and I'm on a  _paid_  vacation - kind of." He handed the waiter his card and watched him go to the bar to run it through. Harry yawned, post-meal tiredness coming on strong. He might Apparate real quick to his hotel room and take a nap. Start afresh tomorrow. He was bound to find Draco by then. If he was lucky, the blond might even turn up all on his own. Looking across at Ron, he chuckled.  
  
Ron was sulking. Harry laughed, incredibly amused. "You do realise most of our school life was you supplying me food, right?" Harry said. He'd been fresh out of St Brutus' and eager for time away from there and his mother's family. He wasn't in charge of his trust fund until he turned eighteen, sixteen in the event of both his parents dying, so for most of his school career - while on summer holidays - if he wasn't being tutored for his OWLs with his godfather, Ron's family had provided for him. The sheer size of Ron's family bred financial wariness, spending money, not with their backgrounds. "Your belt is tighter than Simon Cowell's and, if you don't spend, then I practically hoard." He accepted the pen from the server and paused. "Wait, if I pay with credit, do you get your tip?"  
  
"We add a small admin charge of eight per cent."  
  
"What happens to the other ninety two? Ron asked him.  
  
The waiter smiled. "That's split thirty-seventy between the kitchen team and me." Harry nodded and scribbled his name, taking his card back and his copy of the receipt. He tucked it away as their waiter picked up their napkins, cups and plates. "Come on, you need to go back to the office to let Blaise know I haven't shot you again, and I have a bed with my name on it." They got up, and walked out, waving goodbye to their server.  
  
"You want a lift?"  
  
Harry slid his sunglasses back on and smiled cheekily. "Nah, I have my own way."  
  
Ron looked queasy. "Oh, yeah." Harry laughed. "Shut up. It's a horrible way to travel."  
  
Harry shook his head. "You say that 'cause you're not used to it." The first and only time Ron had allowed Harry to take him on a side-along Apparition, he'd thrown up. He said that feeling like he was being squeezed into a straw to get somewhere was not his idea of a good time.   
  
Ron shook his head. "No, I say that because it's a  _horrible way to travel_."  
  
Harry turned away. "Off you go. Back to your desk. I'll talk to you later." Harry smiled as he watched Ron walk across the road, waving again as he disappeared behind Christchurch Gardens. Harry found the nearest dark space on the street, away from the public eye and Apparated straight into his hotel room. He was out like a light as soon as he fell back on his bed.  
  
That evening, Harry woke up with a post-it stuck to his forehead. He frowned at it, at first wondering what it was, before his brain caught up with his eyes and commanded his hand to swipe it off. Turning it over, he squinted as he tipped it into the light. For some reason, Harry found himself smiling.  


 

__

"Do you have a reservation, sir?" said the Maitre'd as Harry walked into the restaurant. Harry ducked his head under the strap of his bag to take it off.

"A what? Oh! erm... Malfoy, maybe?" he tried, when he received a very unimpressed look from the uptight looking man.  
  
"I'm afraid I can't see any reservation under that name."  
  
Since the man hadn't even looked down at the booking listing for the night, Harry didn't doubt it. He thought of all the names that Draco went by, but he knew from experience the blond preferred for him to call him Draco, so it was unlikely he'd use something like Nathaniel or Russell. But those were the only ones he knew. Unless... "Oh. Well, try Potter, for two, likely."  
  
The man's face transformed into a welcoming smile. Harry had no idea his name was so influential. "Ah! Mr Potter. This way. Your husband has been waiting for you." He walked off into the restaurant.  
  
Harry pulled up short. "My what now?" Eventually, he hoisted his bag onto his shoulder and followed the man walking swiftly away from him.  
  
He was led to a table on the terrace. As he stepped outside, he spotted the head of blond hair immediately. "Darling!" That familiar, and possibly fake, French accent made his heart stutter for a second or two. He walked it off.  
  
Suddenly realising what that familiar, and possibly fake, French accent had said, Harry's eyebrows shot up to the sky. "What?"  
  
Draco's expression was admonishing. "You're late. You said you would be here by seven. It's embarrassing being here by myself for so long. I ordered already, is that alright?" He eyed the duffel Harry had slung over his shoulders as he took it off and dropped it on the ground. "You brought work with you, I see."  
  
Harry sat down after taking off his jacket, still confused with what was going on. He noticed a bag, similar to his own on the ground by Draco's feet. "I'm not the only one." A waiter stood by him and he looked up, wondering what he wanted if his food had already been ordered.  
  
Draco decided to help by adding to his confusion with a headache. "I didn't order you a drink, my love."  
  
Harry frowned across at the blond. "Please stop doing that." Draco shrugged. "I'll take a red wine."  
  
"What vint-"  
  
Harry raised his hand. "I don't care. Make it red and in a glass." The waiter turned to move away and Harry stopped him again. "And don't spit in it. I'll know. I'm in law enforcement and I'm licensed with a gun." He turned back to Draco. "I just woke up, so explain to me why I'm suddenly your husband."  
  
Draco shrugged. "I know a Justice of the Peace."  
  
Harry frowned. "This doesn't inspire confidence. Nor does it answer my question."  
  
Grey eyes narrowed fondly. "It isn't meant to, and yes it does, Mr Potter."  
  
Harry narrowed his eyes at the roundabout answers. Couldn't he give a straight answer just once? "What is it meant to do, then, Mr Malfoy?" he said in kind.  
  
Draco chuckled as their waiter brought Harry his wine. "That's Potter to you." Harry rolled his eyes, his hands going over the top of his glass before he picked it up. Since he was small he'd been able to detect foreign substances in food. His godfather had told him that every wizard was sensitive to something and usually manifested in a special ability unique to each witch and wizard. In his line of work, Harry was glad for it, especially sitting opposite the trickiest man he was ever likely to meet. Draco gestured to his cutlery, wrapped in a cloth napkin. "You should have got the white. I ordered you chicken."  
  
Harry sighed. This was obviously some con Draco was working. He played along, bringing the wineglass to his lips. "It doesn't surprise me that being married to you is just as infuriating as before."  
  
Draco took a sip of his own wine, his smile sly. "Give it a couple of years. I guarantee you'll want to  _murder_  me."  
  
"Mmm, only a couple of years?" Harry said smiling, hiding his expression behind the rim of his glass. Moments later, their food was brought out and he looked down at Tiger Prawns. "You said you ordered me chicken."  
  
"I say a lot of things."  
  
"What if I'm allergic to seafood?"  
  
"But you're not, and you need some culture after all that pizza this afternoon."  
  
"I had one -  _How_  did you-" He stopped, realising who he was talking to. "Never mind, I don't want to know." He took a bite. It wasn't bad. The sauce on the plate was lovely. He cut into a tiger prawn and speared it with his fork, dragging it through the butter sauce. His eyes closed involuntarily when it touched his tongue.  _Merciful god._  
  
When he came back to himself, he noticed Draco was watching him, chin propped up on the palm of his hand. His eyes were dark, irises nearly engulfed by the pupil. Harry ducked his head, cheeks flushing red. Ron always told him to stop doing that, that people would watch. Maybe now it was time to listen to his best friend. "I love to watch you eat. I nearly came this afternoon watching you."  
  
Harry looked up. Draco's eyes were heated. "Is that so?"  
  
Those grey eyes darkened further. "Very much so," he replied, the tip of his tongue touching on his canine tooth.  
  
"And where were you?" Harry said drinking his wine and using his fork to spear what looked like seasoned chips.  
  
"You didn't recognise me?" Draco smiled, biting into his club sandwich and then pushed his finger up the bridge of his nose, his eyes smiling mischievously.  
  
Harry's jaw dropped. A very clear picture of someone pushing up their glasses entering his mind, someone with horn-rimmed glasses. "You were our  _waiter_?" he said incredulously. "How? I mean - wh-" His expression was solemn. "My credit card."  
  
"I didn't steal your credit card details, Harry."  
  
Harry studiously ignored the way Draco said his name. "What about my signature," he said knowingly.  
  
Draco cocked and eyebrow and shrugged. He put a hand up in front of his mouth. "You caught me," he said around his food. He frowned then and spat it out.  
  
"O...kay." Harry stared as Draco picked his way into it and then used a fork to lift out a brown hair. "Oh, ew."  
  
Draco swallowed repeatedly, looking a little green. "I don't think I am hungry anymore."  
  
Harry looked down at his tiger prawns and seasoned chips. He swallowed, a nauseous feeling creeping into his throat. "Me either." He pushed away his plate and signalled for their waiter. "The cheque, please."  
  
"Is something wrong, sir?" the waiter asked them, seeing their plates were still more or less full.  
  
Draco gestured the man closer with his finger. "Yes, erm, if I could just have a private word with your manager or, perhaps, the cook?" Draco said quietly. "I found a hair. We'll still pay; I'd just like them to know." The waiter nodded and left quickly.  
  
" _We'll_  still pay?" Harry said dryly when the man left.  
  
Draco leaned forward conspiratorially. "You can't treat your husband once in a while?" He asked, brushing his, now short, hair back with his hands.  
  
"I don't treat my husband at all, since I  _don't have one_." With a huff, Draco sat up straight, angling away from their conversation when a pair of men and their waiter came back. Draco seemed to freeze solid as he stared at the approaching group. From experience, Harry knew that was never a good thing. "What is it?" Harry asked.  
  
Draco looked at him and smiled in an appeasing way. Harry hated it. "It's nothing, don't worry." He hated that phrase too.  
  
A large man in a suit walked with authority to their table. He seemed a bit imperious.  _Manager, then_ , Harry thought to himself. "I have heard from Justin here that you have had an unfortunate experience with your food."  
  
Draco looked sheepish. "I did not wish to cause any trouble, as I said we will still pay, I just thought you should know that I found a hair in my food. I've barely touched it, so no harm done."  
  
"You almost ingested it," Harry couldn't help but say.  
  
Draco gave him a scolding look. "Harry."  
  
"May I see it?" the manager asked.  
  
Draco seemed surprised at that. "Oh, of course, here." He lifted his fork again and held out the wavy brown hair. The manager held it up to the chef's head and tutted when he noticed it was the same texture, length and colour.  
  
Now, the manager looked sheepish. "You must forgive me, we have a lot of people coming in here to eat our food hoping to get something free."  
  
Draco waved him off with a careless gesture. "I understand, it's fine. You can just bring us the cheque."  
  
"No, I will not. We shall get you both another meal, you can take it home if you like." He eyed the man next to him. "I'll have another chef make your order." He left then, signalling the waiter to take their plates.  
  
When the waiter was done, he left them with the chef eyeing them hatefully, mainly Draco. Harry gave the man a cautious look. "Does your boyfriend know what you get up to in alleyways before dinner?"  
  
Harry frowned at him. "I'm not his boyfriend."  
  
Draco held up his wine glass, swirling the white contents around, then took a sip of his wine. "Are you sure you haven't had anyone pulling on your hair? I hear it happens sometimes," he said smiling slyly at the chef and taking a sip of his wine. Harry's brow furrowed at the comment. What a strange thing to say.  
  
Slowly, the chef's jaw dropped. "You, you pulled out one of my hairs and planted it in there!" he said indignantly.  
  
"When exactly would I have done that?" Draco asked innocently, keeping his tone light.  
  
Mouth still gaping, the chef pointed around the corner, where the alleyway holding the restaurant's skip was located. "When I gave you a blow job around back earlier."  
  
"Phillipe!" The chef spun around at the exclamation of the manager. His mouth moved, but nothing was coming out this time.   
  
Draco narrowed his eyes as if he'd been slighted. "That's quite a slanderous thing to say in front of my husband. I already said I would leave with no problems, but if you want I will pay for the meal I  _haven't_  eaten, here." He dug into his coat and took out his wallet, opening it to take out his credit card. The chef and the manager turned to Harry, the first stricken and the second embarrassed. Harry went a little red and decided to stay quiet. He did raise his hand in a sheepish wave, though.  
  
"You're a food critic?" the manager asked out of the blue and Draco looked up confused until he realised his identification card was on display. Huh, he'd honestly forgotten that was there still.  _Well, goes to show how often I actually open this thing._  
  
Harry sat back and crossed his arms.  _Imagine that_ , his mind supplied dryly.  
  
Draco's smile was shark-like. "I'm afraid I am."

 

"You let the chef blow you, and then you got him fired?" Harry said. He didn't know whether to be sympathetic or amused.  "That's cold."  
  
Draco shrugged. "You took so long. I got lonely waiting for you." He waved off the concern, hoisting his dark blue duffel bag on his shoulder. "He wasn't that good anyway."  
  
Harry held onto the bag of complimentary food. "You do this every day?"  
  
Draco shook his head laughing. "Oh, Lord no. Sometimes there are places with deals. It doesn't have to be free, though that is my favourite price, sometimes it just has to be worth it."  
  
Harry was so busy watching how Draco's smile lit up his face, that he didn't notice the black van following them at a snail's pace, until Draco did and his smile stopped. "Merde."  
  
A large man got out of the front while two more slid the back open and stepped out to wait. Instantly, Harry recognised the first man as Cunningham, the man who'd delivered a rather serious message to Draco the last time he'd seen him. He turned to Draco to see how he was taking their arrival. Not well, apparently.  
  
"How did you find me? You told me I had two weeks," Draco said, shaken, his lilting accent becoming stronger.  
  
Cunningham cocked his head to the side. "We used your phone." Harry's gaze snapped to his bag and he shut his eyes at his stupidity. He hadn't switched off Draco's phone, too busy going through every single contact to find his true identity. Tried was the operative word there, as everything was labelled crazily with things like 'cows come home' for a young woman who spoke Yiddish (according to a translator) and 'Penny for your thoughts' for a man who, apparently, owned a burger restaurant in Scotland. The only contact with a logical name was 'Father'. Harry hadn't touched that one. Some respect had to be paid after all. "Cormack isn't the most patient man, Malfoy. You know that and, thanks to your procrastination, so does your father." Harry winced, but it went unseen as no one was paying him any attention. Cunningham gestured to the van. "Get in, Draco." He looked at Harry. "Boyfriend, too."  
  
"For Christ's - I'm  _not_  his boyfriend!" he said, but knew a helpless situation when he found himself in one. He followed Draco, taking off his bag and setting it on the floor with the bag of food on top of it. The van took off as soon as the front door shut.  
  
Draco leaned a little and whispered to him. "Sweetheart."  
  
Harry gritted his teeth and turned to Draco. " _Don't_  call me that," he said slowly.  
  
Draco rolled his eyes and nodded indulgently. "Yes, I know, you hate when I call you that, but  _sweetheart_." He gestured again, this time with Harry's attention, to the door. The one they hadn't locked.  
  
 _Oh_. "Yes... er, Darling."  
  
Draco frowned at him quizzically. Harry shrugged. He wasn't like Draco, he had absolutely no experience with pet names. Draco rolled his eyes at him again. "I just hate the traffic at this time of night. Always so slow," he added meaningfully.  
  
Harry tightened his fist around his bag and his food.  
  
As soon as the van slowed down, Draco rammed himself forward into the Scot in front of him, his hands pushing at his neck as the van stopped completely. The surprise at the extra momentum had the large man careening forward into the driver, who hadn't taken his foot off the accelerator yet. The van went soaring ahead, through the traffic light and into oncoming traffic.  
  
It wasn't a surprise that they were hit by something. It was a surprise that they survived the hit.  
  
Harry opened his eyes, seeing the open door of the van and a pale hand reaching out to him. He got up, his hand pushing him into a sitting position as he groaned in pain. Standing shakily, he looked around, seeing his bag and his food wedged under a seat and, in a moment of coherency, picked it up before reaching for the hand extended towards him.  
  
"Sirens," he heard alongside the ringing in his ears. "We have to leave. Come on."  
  
"I don't have to leave. I'm not the criminal," he slurred.  
  
There was a pause. "Fine, then I will leave." When Harry turned around, Draco was gone.

 

"Trust you to get into a car, not only with our suspect, but the fucking  _Scottish Mob_ ; cause an accident where no one gets hurt, and help us get three members in our cells." Ron shook his head. "Only you, Harry, I swear." Ron shook his head from where he leaned on a hospital bed. Opposite him, the cut over Harry's right eyebrow was being stitched up by a nurse. Next to him, Blaise sat on the hospital bed, his fingers busily moving over the touch screen of his iPad. Harry had received one baleful stare as Blaise had followed Ron in earlier, claiming he didn't get paid enough for this kind of shit and only a bloody American could cause such a disaster in the middle of London after wining and dining a suspect. Ron had put his hand up to quiet the constant string of complaints and the dark-skinned man had sat sullen, going through Ron's schedule and ordering the proper forms to request access to the accident's files the next day in silence ever since. Harry was glad, Blaise could work himself up into an indignant rant on his best day and he already had a major headache.

Ron squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as his other hand rested on the bed beside him over the Guy's Hospital print on the thin linen sheet. Guy's hospital was the only one with an Accident and Emergency closest to the accident. Ron nearly had a coronary when he heard Harry was in the accident down the street.  
  
"Am I free to go?" Harry asked when the nurse began packing up.  
  
Blaise snorted, his only sound in the last half hour. Ron ignored him. "You've been spending an awful lot of time with him," he said instead when the nurse left, nodding at him once.  
  
Harry looked away. He winced as his stitches pulled over his eyebrow. "Most of it is accidental, trust me."  
  
Ron looked surprised, taking the manila folder Blaise suddenly handed him out of nowhere without even looking up and, in turn, handed it over to his best friend. "Is this accidental, too?"  
  
Harry took it, the ache in his shoulder making him move slowly. "What is it?"  
  
"Your marriage license," Blaise said, tapping something with a little extra force on his screen. He speared a glare in Harry's direction and then continued with his 'work'.  
  
Harry froze. "What?"  
  
"It's your marriage license," Ron repeated mildly. "Signed by Justice Astoria Greengrass, you and one 'Draco Lucius Malfoy'," he said pointing to the names in block print. He then pointed at the 'Name Line'. "Well, Draco Lucius Malfoy  _Potter_ , now, I suppose." He eyed his best friend in a mix of consternation and amusement. "Congrats, I guess." He crossed his arms. "Though, now I believe I'm supposed to tell you that you're off the case."  
  
Harry got up off the hospital bed. "Ron-"  
  
"You're biased," Ron said, stopping him. "I can't have you standing in the way when I arrest him. I thought you could do that for me, but, apparently, your ' _Boarding School Education_ ' is ingrained too deep to shake." Harry leaned back against the bed again. "Always the blonds. Just like school all over again. Go back to your hotel room and rest, Harry. You really look like you need it." He took the two bags Blaise handed him from nowhere and gave them to Harry. He walked away, following Blaise, who didn't need the ability to see to walk out with his iPad in front of him.  
  
Harry sighed and let Ron go. Picking up his jacket, he stood waiting for the dizziness to subside. Once it did, he walked, debating the risks of apparition right now. If he could make it outside, maybe the fresh air would do him wonders and he could get to his hotel room and collapse as soon as possible. Ron had to make an arrest soon. He was beginning to lose track of all the hotel rooms he'd stayed in to avoid the blond thief.  
  
Just as the thought ran through his mind, he heard a strange musical sound. He looked down. His bag was vibrating. He frowned, and then subsequently winced when the stitches above his eyebrow pulled again. The bag in his hand was navy blue, not black. He rested the bag down on the paper-thin sheet on the closest bed and opened it.  
  
This was not his bag. He picked up a sleek thin black mobile phone that he did not recognise and narrowed his eyes when he saw his own phone number on the display. He pressed 'ANSWER' and said, "Well if it isn't my husband," dryly.  
  
" _Oh, you finally believe me._ "  
  
Harry stared at the manila folder. It wasn't like he had much choice now. "What do you want?"  
  
" _I wanted to know if I was a widower already._ " Harry remained silent, knowing if he kept it up long enough the blond would tire and just spit it out. True to form, he heard a sigh. " _I want my things. And I'm quite certain you want yours too, am I correct?_ "  
  
Harry looked down at the bag of clothes. "You are."  
  
" _Good. You can come and collect them._ "  
  
Careful not to furrow his brow, Harry ran a hand through his hair, scratching at his head. "Where?"  
  
There was a beat of silence. " _Are you with anyone?_ "  
  
"What? Why?"  
  
Another sigh over the line. " _I'm not up for running tonight, Mr Potter. I'm sure you understand. If I have to, I will, but I don't guarantee you will find your things in one piece when you see them again._ " There was an edge to his voice, but Harry could hear exhaustion there too. Car crashes and kidnapping would do that to anyone.  
  
Harry sighed. "Where," he said again. His tone resigned this time.  
  
" _I'm at the Dorchester. When you arrive, give the desk clerks your name, they'll direct you accordingly._ " The line went dead.  
  
Harry packed everything, even his jacket, into the navy blue duffel bag and began walking. Screw alleyways, he was using the nearest bathroom.

 

Draco answered the door to the corner roof suite of the hotel with wet hair, wearing a shirt that did not belong to him. "The Dorchester Suite," Harry commented, holding the key card in his hand that he didn't bother to use.

"The pride of The Dorchester, also known as the  _Honeymoon Suite of Dreams_." Draco looked down at the bags in Harry's hand. "Aww, you saved the food. Could I love you any more?" He grabbed the bags and walked inside, leaving the door open. "Fitting, _non_?" he asked, watching Harry over his shoulder as he walked further into the living room.  
  
Harry looked around. "Unbelievable is more like it."  
  
"Thank you. Your things are over there." The blond pointed towards the large couch in the living room. "I ran you a bath. It may be too hot, though. I thought you would take much longer to get here." He pulled his wrapped sandwich out and put the bag down on the chair closest to him.  
  
Harry couldn't ignore it anymore. "You're wearing my shirt."  
  
Draco shrugged, biting into his club sandwich. "Mine were with you," he said from behind his hand. "If you're leaving now, I am happy to give it back."  
  
Harry stood with grime still in his hair and about his body. All he wanted was a hot bath. "No, it's okay. I can stay for a while."  
  
Draco was surveying him carefully and Harry waited. "Forgive me, but is there a reason you're not arresting me right now?" Harry walked over to the door on his left, searching for the bathroom, unable to maintain eye contact. He found a bedroom instead. "Hmm. Sentiment. That's interesting."  
  
Harry pulled out a pair of track pants. "I'm just tired."  
  
Draco wasn't listening. "I didn't peg you as the sentimental type."  
  
Finally finding the bathroom, just off the bedroom, he switched on the light and took in the white marble walls and sink. There was a large tub filled with bubbles and hot water. "I wouldn't say that."  
  
"Non?" That voice was closer than before. Harry turned around to find Draco had followed him. Harry shook his head in disbelief. The blond never seemed to understand privacy or personal space. "Pray tell." Draco leaned in the doorway, hip cocked.  
  
Harry raised his arms to take off his t-shirt. He hissed as he pulled on sore muscles and took a moment to take a breath.  
  
"Here. Let me help." Draco put his sandwich on the white marble-patterned dresser drawers, dusted off his hands on Harry's shirt and stepped forward with his hands out.  
  
Harry dodged away, wincing as he moved quicker than he should have. "I can do it," he said stubbornly.  
  
Draco stood patiently. "I know, but so could I, with less hissing." He directed Harry to raise his arms. Swiftly, he tore the shirt up and off. "See? Like a band-aid, non?" He dropped the t-shirt on the white marble floor, watching Harry's jeans with interest. "Can you manage your trousers? I would be happy to help." He watched Harry through his lashes.  
  
Harry ignored the leer. "We call them plasters, here." He turned away and started in on his pants, and then he paused and turned his head to Draco again. "What - marriage means no privacy?" he said.  
  
Draco stared at him, head cocked like a curious kitten. "You've never been married before, have you?" he said, picking his sandwich up again.  
  
Harry narrowed his eyes. "Have you?" He twirled his finger around and Draco rolled his eyes, but humoured him anyway, turning around. Quickly, Harry divested himself of his jeans and his boxers in one go and stepped into the heat of the tub.  
  
"Non, but I have seen enough of them on television to know the answer to your question." Draco peaked around when Harry moaned at the sensation of the bath water around his skin, disappointed that the bubbles covered everything up.  
  
"You shouldn't believe everything you see on TV," Harry said, settling against the smooth wall of the tub. The water was hot, but not intolerable.  
  
Draco turned, walking out of the room. "I'll let you have some time alone."  
  
"Oh sure, now you give me time alone."

 

"You were going to tell me something."

Harry paused from eating his re-heated chips by the window. Apparently they re-heated food brought in with them here. Talk about service. Hyde Park was vast and dark in areas of the vista he was looking out upon. "Was I?" His bath had been heavenly and the window seats were cushioned with a soft velvety material. The tiny warming charm he'd cast on them when Draco went to use the bathroom went unnoticed. He burrowed down in the softness, foregoing his shirt. The material made his skin itchy, for some reason, and he couldn't scratch too much because the muscles in his arms still ached a little. "I was?" he said and stuffed a prawn in his mouth.  
  
"Yes, you were. I told you that you were sentimental and you disagreed." Draco was drinking a glass of red wine now, his sandwich finished ages ago while Harry was still in the bath.  
  
"And you took that to mean that I would share a life story with you?"   
  
Draco nodded lightly, as if in acceptance, and stared out the window on his side of the window seat where he'd chosen to invade Harry's space yet again. "I was simply looking for a distraction," he said quietly.  
  
Harry felt the guilt rising up and clawing at his lungs and heart. The sensation made it a little difficult to breathe. He took a deep breath and watched his food, sneaking a glance up at the blond sitting melancholy opposite him. Draco looked down towards the people walking below, the pad of his finger pressed into the double glazing of the glass. _Little boy lost_. he thought to himself.   _Little boy who just lost his father_.  
  
 _For fuck's sake_... "I have a boat," he said, like the words were being dragged out of him against his will. That pretty much described it, yeah. "Named it after my mum." He swallowed around the lump the thoughts of his mother brought up in him. He hadn't even known the woman, but he had pictures, lined his home with them, her and his father. It wasn't much, but it was the family he had.  
  
Draco was staring at him, knowing what he wanted to ask but not sure how. "How long ago?" he asked eventually.  
  
The words were simple, and didn't have the word 'death' in it. Both of them would want to avoid that word, he supposed. "I was two. My dad died trying to save her, but they both ended up shot by the guy who broke in." He lifted his fringe. "Got this from a piece of broken glass when my mum fell. I was in her arms at the time." He frowned, trying hard to forestall the tears. "My godfather took me in, taught me all sorts," he said, choosing to leave out exactly  _what_  sorts of things he'd been taught. It wouldn't do to spill those to a Muggle like Draco. "It was fun, until I was six and my mum's brother in law found out I had money to my name. He got my aunt to contest custody in court. As a blood relative, living in a nice area, with a child of their own; they won out against my single, gay, unattached, childless godfather." Draco leaned his head against the glass of the window as he listened intently. Harry hadn't had this much attention paid to him in a while. He hadn't told this to anyone except Ron since he was fifteen. "Shortly after they got me, Vernon came to the realisation that he couldn't touch my money any more than I could. So one evening, when my cousin and his friends were beating me up and I lashed out, rather spectacularly if I do say so myself, they called the police, declared me violent and sent me to a boys home."   
  
Foregoing the fork, Harry pushed his food around on his plate with his forefinger. "I was ten when my counsellor told me how my parents died. I told her I wanted to catch the man who did it. She helped me appeal to my family's financial director to get some money and to get out of that place and into a private school. I couldn't become a police officer if I was in a home for Criminally Insane Boys, after all." Harry pushed his plate aside and took a sip of the beer Draco had given him when he came out of the bathroom. He'd transferred into a high end private boys' school, where he'd met Ron and proceeded to have the best time of his life. He'd reconnected with Sirius and subsequently learned the true story of how his parents died. How some deranged wizard had broken in and got caught, then proceeded to fight his way out of the house through Harry's parents.  
  
Harry spent one or two summers with Sirius, learning what he could from the tutors that he set upon him, since Harry refused to go to the one school that he didn't have to beg to let him in. Hogwarts would remind him too much of his parents, and he couldn't take it so soon after finding out how they died. However, he still had that envelope holding the invitation that came by owl mail on his eleventh birthday, he only pulled it out when he was decidedly maudlin, wondering if his parents had the same talents that he did. All his tutors told him that he was rather powerful for a wizard of his age, especially an undereducated one.  
  
Draco's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Did the police catch him?" The question pulled Harry out of his thoughts.  
  
Harry shook his head, clearing the cobwebs. "No." He cleared his throat. "Well, kind of. I did. One year in, I was about to take my exams for Sergeant. I thought-" He let out a breath and started again, trying to sound less shaky. "I thought it would help, I thought I would feel some kind of vindication from vengeance." He laughed emptily. "When he went to prison," he said for lack of a better description of  _Avada Kedavra_ , "I felt empty. Other things kind of got in the way as well so-" He swiped his hand over his face and stared out the window. "I left the force and travelled for a while. Got into this because it took the anxiety away for a bit." He shrugged. "Ended up loving it."  
  
"So this is your dream?" Draco asked folding his legs beneath him. He leaned back into the cushions behind him.  
  
Harry laughed. "Oh, fuck no." He settled, eyes straying to Draco's legs as he righted himself. "My dream is the three storey cabin I have in the woods."  
  
"Where?" Harry gave him an obvious look, one that said ' _You don't honestly expect me to answer that, do you?_ '. Draco returned one to match. "You know I will just find it anyway." The cheekiness of his tone, coupled with his accent, made Harry chuckle.  
  
Harry shook his head; amused, mainly because he knew it was the truth. "Sherwood, at the end of Clumber Lake. There's a... spa type place that's just been built up the way. Bloody ridiculous. I keep getting stray canoes ambling up my boat way."  
  
"Boat way?  
  
"I don't have a car."  
  
Draco looked appalled. "Oh! I will have to fix that. No husband of mine will be carless."  
  
Harry laughed. "Knock yourself out." He picked at the label of his beer and smiled. "It's my happy place. I dreamed of it every day for years once I realised what I wanted in life."  
  
"Which was?"  
  
Harry breathed deep, letting it out in a hefty rush of air. "Somewhere I can have some peace. Contentment. When I'm there, everything is good." He took another drink. "How about you?"  
  
Draco leaned his head against the glass again. "What about me?"  
  
"You don't have a dream?"  
  
Draco laughed wryly. "I do, but it is decidedly less savoury than yours."  
  
Harry eyed him thoughtfully and suddenly knew the answer. "The drawing? Why is that one so special?" he asked.  
  
A delighted expression took over Draco's face. "Ah. The Princess.... she is  _my_  three storey cabin in the woods." He smiled, his eyes sharing a secret with Harry. "My mentor, he showed me everything. His family, they experimented with paper and canvases, the ones that you paint on?" he explained.  
  
Harry gestured that he understood. "Yeah, yeah, go on."  
  
"Well, Da Vinci, he used their canvases." Draco leaned forward and took Harry's hand, turning it over in his own and tracing his fingers over his palm. "Vellum, though, is made from skin, scraped thin and treated until it is almost translucent." He raked his nails lightly against the skin under his, eyes never leaving Harry's. "It was used in bound books and scrolls back in the fifteenth century. There was a specific way to treat it, you see. The Prince family, they were  _experts_  at it, they patented their methods in the only way they could, keeping them safely locked away for centuries. The way the vellum was treated made their canvases perfect for chalk, ink, paint, all sorts." Draco smiled, proud. "Da Vinci, innovator that he was, he tried them out, drew a portrait for my mentor's ancestor, a young girl that he was about to marry. The Young Fiancée." He smiled wistfully and sat back, putting Harry's hand down on the cushioned window seat.  
  
Harry's hand tingled pleasantly. He remembered seeing that phrase, it was an alternate name for  _La Bella Principessa._  "The girl in the picture?"  
  
"Oui." Draco brushed his hair back. "The man that owns it now, he will not let it go. We have tried everything. Payment, bribery, threats even... so I told my mentor I would get it for him. No bloodshed, no problems. He would also have an ironclad alibi." Harry was suddenly reminded that he never followed through with his hunch that the collector in Switzerland would know Draco's face. His cheeks tinted red and he raised his beer to his mouth, tilting his head back to hide it.  
  
Finishing off his bottle, Harry put it on the ground behind him. "And what now?"  
  
Draco seemed confused by what he said. "Now?"  
  
Harry shrugged. "Well, you didn't get it. So what now? You try again?"  
  
Scoffing lightly, Draco looked outside before giving Harry an exasperated glance. "For you to have something else to arrest me for? Non, I am done with the Princess. I got the closure I went to France for." He got up and put his glass down on the low coffee table in the living room. When he turned back, Harry was still watching him. "And you?"  
  
"Me?"  
  
Draco crossed his arms over his chest. "You said in the pizza place that you are ready to retire early and live off your considerable fortune."  
  
Harry laughed softly. "Oh, you would hear that, wouldn't you?" Harry rolled his eyes. "Is that why you chose me?"  
  
"Pardon?" Harry gestured to the room in general, the honeymoon suite he was undoubtedly paying for. "Oh, Harry, I didn't choose you, you just happened to pay." He came back to the window and suddenly planted himself in Harry's lap. "So, when will we getting on to the consummation?"  
  
One hand planted on the window to steady him with the sudden weight and the other in the air  _refusing_  to touch, "The what-now?" Harry exclaimed.  
  
Draco's brow furrowed. "Did I say it wrong? Consummation?" he sounded out slowly, like he was learning the word all over again. "Is that not the right word?"  
  
Hedging around the possibility, though, really, with his current position, Draco couldn't possibly mean anything else. "Er... I'm not sure. Did you mean sex?"  
  
"Yes," Draco said brightly.  
  
Harry gave him a cross look. "Well, it's not going to happen!"  
  
Cocking an eyebrow, Draco stared at him as if he was obtuse. "It's not."  
  
Harry got up, causing Draco to scramble backwards or fall on the ground by the window seat. "No! I don't even know your real name, Draco-Nathaniel-Nathan-Russell-Malfoy-whatever!"  
  
Draco cocked his head to the side, studying him in silence. For the first time since Harry had accused him of lying about his name, he didn't outright correct him. "I cannot trust you with my real name. I tested you. I asked you to do one thing and you failed."  
  
"That's-"  
  
Cutting him off, Draco continued talking blithely. "If I cannot trust you with it, why would I give it to you?"  
  
Harry paused for a moment, catching on to what Draco was saying and suddenly realised something. "Wait. If you're  _not_  Draco Malfoy, then who the hell am I legally married to?"  
  
The blond stared like he was talking to a particularly slow child. "You are married to Draco Lucius Malfoy."  
  
Harry's hands tightened into fists. He felt like strangling something. Preferably something six foot one, blond and sitting directly in front of him. "And who is he?" he bit out.  
  
Draco smiled. "Hmm, that remains to be seen."  
  
His mouth opening in stunned disbelief, Harry gripped his hair and turned away, pacing on the carpeted floor. "Oh my god. I am  _not_  having sex with you!" Letting go of his hair before he tore it out, his arms flailed in disbelief instead. He wanted to scream.  
  
Draco sat patiently in the space Harry left behind, watching him pace in silence. He leaned back into the window. "Because you do not know my name? That is a bit of a double standard, non? Especially with all the one night stands you have had in your life, so far."  
  
Turning back, Harry stared at Draco. "What?"  
  
Draco continued as if Harry hadn't spoken. " _And_  the fact that your eyes have been having sex with me since they first saw me a week and a half ago."  
  
Face creasing with incredulity, Harry glared at him. "I am not-"  
  
Draco pointed at him, in all his flailing glory. "They're having sex with me right now," he said, sounding very 'matter of fact'. Harry shut his eyes and turned away. "Oh, don't turn away, I was almost there." That tone should not turn him on. It  _shouldn't_  damn it, but Harry's libido wasn't listening to reason. Neither were his lips, apparently, because when Draco grabbed him and he felt a tongue prying his mouth open to brush against his; his libido, his lips and his traitorous tongue responded to it before his mind could tell them to stop. By the time his mind caught up, none of his body parts wanted to listen to reason and he heard Draco moan upon receiving such a positive response. Draco's tongue slid further along his before curling back and running along the roof of his mouth. Harry's mind was saying something important, screaming at him that he shouldn't be doing this. Draco was a suspect, he was supposed to be arresting him.  
  
But damn if Draco's kisses weren't laced with some sort of addictive drug. As soon as the man's tongue touched his, it lit his blood on fire.  
  
Harry closed his eyes and hummed as Draco alternated between his lips and his teeth along his shoulder. If that wasn't enough, Draco's hands slipped into Harry's track pants, circling his cock and slowly stroking it, feeling it lengthen and harden in his hand. It was an all-out body assault. Draco grabbed the back of his head and kissed him again before any oxygen Harry managed to take in could get to his brain. When he let him go, Harry realised they'd somehow made it from the living room to the bedroom. He was lying down with Draco seated above him, pinning his wrists to the pillow. Draco let one of them go and lightly ran a finger along Harry's jaw and down his throat. "Mmm, I am going to take my time and enjoy this."  
  
Harry pressed his body closer, rolling his hips and then bucking Draco off him when the blond became distracted by the pleasure. Looking down at him, now, Harry shook his head. That was far too easy. "Remind me, one day, if I ever see you again, to teach you some form of self-defence. That stunt you pulled in the van earlier was pathetic and this," he added, holding Draco by the wrists and waggling his arms. They flapped limply in his grip. "You need to work on this."  
  
Draco's eyes narrowed. "Are you saying there is something wrong with my arms?"  
  
"I'm saying if you don't want to work on body strength, at least learn how to handle a gun."  
  
Draco's eyes narrowed further, mere slits now as he struggled under Harry's grip. "I know how to shoot a man, when necessary."  
  
Harry stilled him with minimal effort. "Necessary. As in to wound."  
  
"I don't need to kill. I am a thief, not a murderer."  
  
"What if you had to?"  
  
Draco looked resigned now. He clucked his tongue, unimpressed. "Americans." Draco sighed. "You really know how to kill a mood."  
  
Harry didn't bother to tell him he wasn't American. Draco ignored things, he didn't forget them. "Just promise me one thing."  
  
Draco heaved a heavy sigh. " _Mon Dieu_ ," he said exasperated, his hand breaking free to run down his face tiredly. "I will promise you the  _entirety of my Swiss Bank account_  if you would just  _fuck_  me in the next three minutes."  
  
Harry leaned over, his eyes dark with Draco's words as he closed in on the blond. He let go of Draco's other wrist, planting a hand on the bed and aimed his index finger at the space between Draco's nose and his top lip, stroking down the small indent once with the pad of his fingertip. The area was soft, he must have just shaved. "Right here," he said softly. Draco might not like guns, except to dismantle them, but Harry didn't like the idea that he would be vulnerable because he wasn't prepared. "If someone has a gun pointed at you, his finger on the trigger, you aim right here. Straight to the back. It severs the brain stem, kills the reflexes."  
  
Draco raised his free hands up over his head, his long legs wrapped themselves around Harry's waist and pulled him down with a deceptive strength. "Wonderful, very interesting, now can you get on with it?" he said, not at all concerned with the rather gruesome piece of information.  
  
Harry stared at him and then shook his head, rolling his eyes.  _Just flew right overhead. Bloody typical._  He looked around in thought and pushed his bag off the side of the bed onto the floor.  
  
"Top drawer," Draco said correctly guessing what he was looking for.   
  
Harry dug into it. "Wow, The Dorchester thinks of everything, doesn't it?" he said picking up the roll of condoms in the drawer. As a wizard, he didn't really need them, but he supposed Draco would want them. Safety was important to Muggles, and rightly so.  
  
Draco shrugged. "It's not called the Honeymoon Suite for nothing, Harry."  
  
Harry let his weight settle on the blond. "But people eligible for honeymoons aren't usually in need of these." Especially  _so many_. Jesus. He was beginning to think their presence had nothing to do with the hotel at all.  _The Dorchester_  was high end, sure, but it wasn't a damn brothel.  
  
"I don't know where you've been, Harry," Draco said playfully.  
  
Laughing, Harry dropped the roll of condoms on the bed and said in a low voice, "Oh - no, based on earlier comments, I think you know  _exactly_ where I've been." Probably had before he forged Harry's signature on the dotted line, too. But as he watched Draco lying there, Harry's shirt in disarray around his shoulders, Harry, suddenly, did not care. He sat up abruptly. "Where the hell is the lube?" He went back to digging through the drawer.  
  
"About damn time," he heard and snorted.  
  
"Hush, and turn over."  
  
"Mmm, kinky," Draco said but did it anyway, taking off Harry's shirt and throwing it away.  
  
Harry stared at the pale flesh, unable to stop himself from leaning over him and biting lightly at the skin. His hand slowly traversed over the vertebrae of Draco's spine, his hand moulded to the skin so tightly he could feel Draco's shudder echo up his arm. His right hand left Draco's hip, where he'd been holding him, to sweep down and stroke the hard flesh hanging there abandoned as his, now lubed, finger pressed into him. Above, he could hear Draco's groan at the entry of the digit, the sound evolving naturally into soft spoken words, not all of them English. Not able to wait, Harry pushed in another finger, pausing when Draco hissed. He waited, his arm trembling with the effort until Draco loosened enough to let him in deeper and, when he was able to scissor his fingers, he pushed in a third.  
  
Draco's breathing was harsh and his fingers twisted in the sheets and pillows before him. He bit into his bottom lip in an attempt to stifle his loss of control, but what he dampened verbally, he made up for physically when he batted Harry's hands away and reached for one of the condoms on the bed, tearing it open and throwing it at the brunet.  
  
Harry couldn't get the damn thing on fast enough and, for the first time in his life, considered seriously breaking Wizarding Law on purpose so he could sink into Draco faster. It was ridiculous that he could feel this way for a Muggle -- a criminal to boot -- a compulsive liar, a conman and fraud with more aliases than one could shake a stick at, a thief. But when he did finally breach that snug heat, all those labels fell away. Harry lay his head down, whispering kisses along Draco's shoulders and the nape of his neck as he tried to focus on anything but the heat and wetness that was engulfing his senses, replacing all other thought but  _Holy fucking Merlin_.  
  
Draco pushed back tentatively, gasping hotly at the tight slide. Harry got the message, setting an even, deep pace, stroking in determinedly. Absorbing Draco's movements and returning them with his own. They moved in a slick rhythm, Draco's blond hair tousled around his head as his spine arched to pull Harry's cock into him deeper on his next thrust.   
  
Beautiful.  
  
He kissed and lightly nipped at the flesh before him, the skin slowly staining with red marks. He then slowly trailed the kisses up to Draco's ear. Feeling his balls draw up, knowing he was close, Harry reached for Draco's cock again, stroking it in time with his thrusts and trying to hit Draco's prostrate dead centre as much as he could, but he couldn't get a handle on the angle. Giving up, he pulled out completely, disregarding Draco's whine for now and nudged at him to turn over. Pushing back inside, heart pounding in his ears, Harry had to wait a minute before he felt Draco's body loosen up enough to let him in all the way. He found he'd squeezed his eyes shut as the heat engulfed him again. When he opened them, Draco's face was slack with ecstasy, his pupils blown.   
  
Like a blind man tracing familiar steps, Draco's legs hooked around Harry's waist, clinging to him as they shifted against the cool sheets. A satisfied and contented hum left Harry's throat at the friction, as Draco let out a growling groan in response to Harry hitting his small bundle of nerves. Harry watched Draco's face. His eyes were tightly closed now, pink lips slightly parted. Harry couldn't help it; he kissed him, his eyes slipping closed while his hands made to hold Draco's again, fingers intertwining.   
  
Their pace increased, becoming erratic as they sought release. Harry came first, his orgasm blinding him for a moment. Absently he could feel the heat of Draco's come on his stomach, but the tightening of the muscles surrounding his cock took precedent, numbing his mind from anything else as it milked the last of his orgasm from him.  
  
When he regained his vision and the feeling in his limbs, he could feel a hand stroking down his trembling back, soothing him through his aftershocks. Draco was humming something, relishing the feel of Harry softening inside of him. Harry pulled back a little. Draco's pupils were still blown, most likely still high on endorphins. The blond smiled and Harry couldn't help but smile back. He leaned down to kiss him again, their movements slow and languid.  
  
Draco could lie there all night feeling the slide of their bodies together in the sheets. He was completely fine with that until he heard the snick-click above his head. He looked up confused, his foggy haze of satisfied arousal clearing when he took in the metal encasing his wrist. He tugged at it and let his eyes fall on Harry's. "What is this?" he asked confused, mind struggling to catch up.  
  
Harry carefully pulled out, both of them fighting a groan at the over-stimulation. "This is my guarantee that you will be here tomorrow morning," Harry said as he fell to the side.  
  
"Oh, lover, all you had to do was ask." Draco rolled over to face him and planted the elbow of his cuffed hand in the pillow to prop up his head on his palm. Harry actually seemed serious. This wasn't a game or some kind of role play. "You're really going to leave me like this all night?"  
  
Harry nodded once, his eyes closing. "All night. Just stay still."  
  
Draco smiled, but there was an edge to it, a subtle frosting in its tone. "Fine." He turned over to show Harry his back, his hands flat facing each other under his head. Harry couldn't help but think that Draco seemed a bit too familiar with the practice. The chain links hardly made any noise as he moved around. "Married for a day and already you are chaining me to the bed."  
  
"Goodnight, Draco." When he got no answer, he was not surprised.

 

When Harry woke up, he knew he was screwed. And not in the good way. He opened his eyes slowly, his head inclining upward to look for the key.

"Oh, I wouldn't do that twice in a row, Mr Potter. Do give me some credit."  
  
Harry lowered his head to take in the blond sat atop him. He looked like he'd bathed and dressed while Harry was asleep, his blond hair combed back and hidden under a black knitted hat. Harry narrowed his eyes. "I asked you to stay still."  
  
Chin resting on his folded arms, Draco's one shoulder shrug was evident in the subtle movement of his frame. "I thought that asking made it optional." He brushed a lock of hair away from Harry's forehead. His sigh was wistful. "I was going to stay, you know. Our morning after would have been  _glorious_." His accent made him sound remorseful, regretting the fact he had to go now. "But then you tied me down. I don't do well tied down, Mr Potter."  
  
He dragged himself up and got off the bed. Harry could see now that Draco was fully dressed, his hair looked damp, but covered as it was he couldn't be sure. Draco opened the door, picking up his duffel bag, turning back once. "I'm glad I came to find you. I never took the time to find anyone else. You were, by far, my favourite, though."  
  
There was a twist in his stomach. Somehow, that sounded like a goodbye. "I feel so special."  
  
Draco eyes were fond, if a little sad. "You should. You probably won't see me again."  
  
And some part of Harry knew that was likely true, the part that felt like it was sinking inside of him. "You're going to leave me here?"  
  
Draco smiled cheekily. His smile, though, seemed forced. "I'm sure this is not the first time the Dorchester staff have seen a man in your position." The blond looked away. "Especially a newlywed."  
  
"You can't leave me chained here."  
  
Those grey eyes were laced with anger when they snapped back to him, though the tone of his voice was mild. "You left  _me_  chained there. Trust goes both ways, Mr Potter."  
  
Unable to flail with his arms, Harry let his hands show how frustrated he was with the situation. "I was going to release you."  
  
Draco shrugged. "So am I..." He gave a pointed look to the bottom of the bed. When Harry craned his head he could see the glint of a small key just outside the reach of his toe. If he stretched a little...  
  
"What, so eas-" he began to say, but when he looked up to laugh at him, Draco was already gone.

 

"Well if it isn't the tourist."

Harry looked up from the front desk where he was checking out of the hotel without his husband. He still couldn't believe he was actually married to some stranger 'Draco' had likely pulled out of the phonebook.  
  
 _Phonebook_ , his mind suddenly settled on.  _Why didn't I think of that before?_  
  
"Excuse me?" he said and then paused. Four days ago, the same man had clapped him on the shoulder to tell him Draco had probably made off with his wallet. "Oh, for crying out loud." First the Scottish mob, now the Irish.  
  
Just his luck.  
  
"If you would follow me, Mr Potter."  
  
The Irish lilt was all wrong. Harry truly believed now that anyone else calling his name like that would sound wrong. That it would only sound right with a hint of a French accent. Merlin, he was pathetic. "Where are you taking me?" he asked, eyeing the dark van they were leading him towards. Harry was discovering he had a bit of a phobia when it came to vans, if the anxiety balling in the centre of his chest was anything to go by. He swallowed hard, a shudder running through him as he stepped inside.  
  
"Mr Finnigan would like a word with you."  
  
"And who's Mr Finnigan?"  
  
A full smile with three gold teeth, possibly replacements for those knocked out, met him. "The boss."

 

Harry stepped out of the van to find himself in a warehouse district. It was completely empty, save for the odd, burly looking man walking around with a radio. He looked up at the facade of the building. Was this a headquarters of some sort, the London branch of the Irish mob? Bloody hell.

"You must be Mr Potter."  
  
Turning his head so fast he could hear a crick of bone, Harry winced but faced a pale man with a heavy Irish accent. He was shorter than Harry expected and stood in the doorway of the warehouse Harry was being led into, not in the clichŽd suit and tie, but a t-shirt and jeans. However, even with the official layer of tyranny absent, he still carried an air of authority with him.  
  
With an inclination of his head for Harry to follow him, the Irishman turned around and walked inside. Not having much of a choice, what with the wall of muscle behind him, Harry followed. "My name is Finnigan. You can call me Seamus if you want. Do you know why you're here, Mr Potter? Or do you prefer Harry?"  
  
Harry experienced a small moment of surprise when asked for his opinion and took ample advantage of the offer. "Er, Harry."  
  
"Harry it is then.  _Do_  you know why you're here, Harry?"  
  
"I'm guessing it has something to do with a Malfoy?" Harry said, using the name every mobster seemed to call the blond that he knew. It must be trying to have a handle on so many titles at once. Even Draco's best friend called him Nathaniel. Was that his real name, or a name he gave her? It could have been a name she called him in public. As his oldest friend and mother of his kid, as someone who knew what he did for a living, it seemed like something she'd do if it kept him safe and anonymous. Harry could laugh at himself. He was literally married to a man he didn't know, and figuratively married to a man he had no name for.  
  
Blue eyes lit up. "Oh, I like it when they don't play stupid. It's exhausting all the energy it takes to get the truth out, isn't it?" he asked a random man standing beside him. The man nodded. Harry was sure even if he wasn't listening, he would have nodded all the same. "Yes, it's about Malfoy." He sat down on a chair in the middle of the warehouse and gestured to the other one. "I heard of Mr Malfoy's endeavours," he began as Harry took the offered seat. "Thought I'd cash in and give him some money as an investment. Little did I know he'd double cross me and tell the Scots the same thing." Blue eyes flashed a dangerous glint in the dim light of the warehouse. "I'm not a bad man, I just know what I want and I wanted that drawing. 160 million, who wouldn't?" He laughed deprecatingly. "Now I hear it's still in the feckin' gallery, so I want my investment back, all twenty thousand of it."  
  
 _Nice hefty donation of twenty thousand from an anonymous party,_  Hermione's voice replayed in his head.  
  
Eyes closing in realisation, Harry scoffed.  _Anonymous indeed._  "I don't have your money."  
  
When he opened his eyes, Seamus was watching him with crystalline clarity. "No, you don't, but your hubby does." Harry tried not to let his shock show, but knew he'd failed when he caught sight of the smirk on the Irishman's face. "Oh yes, we all heard. We all have contacts. Congrats are in order, I guess." Harry shrugged. It wasn't like it meant anything. "It was a good way of hiding. Our contacts in the Met were still looking for a single, white male and he went off grid for a couple of days. I thought he'd be running. I was going after family, but it seems one of my rivals already did so. All I have now is you. Imagine my surprise when he didn't run."  
  
"He doesn't care about me. Look where he left me."  
  
Seamus' eyes narrowed in amusement, the dangerous glint suddenly turned knowledgeable. "Yes, look where he left you, after I called him this morning to tell him I was coming after you," he said as if he was doing Harry a favour.  
  
Harry stared. "What?"  
  
Seamus nodded looking into space in thought. "I know, it's strange, right? Mr Ice Prince himself never shows emotion and, suddenly, he rushes a marriage license and gets shacked up in the honeymoon suite of the Dorchester at first available notice instead of going to ground." Returning to Harry, his eyes cleared. "I don't think it's a coincidence.  
  
"You know what else I don't think is a coincidence? That our resident thief visits a certain hospital every two weeks and goes to the same ward, to visit the same little girl, who plays with the same children every day after nursery school."  
  
Harry frowned. Threatening Harry when they knew that there were others Draco took a liking to, meant that they didn't know how Draco was related to them. Harry decided he wouldn't do anything to tip that thought process.  
  
"He then hooks up an autistic kid, who likes to paint, with supplies. Did you know he got his little lady that job? About four years ago, around about the time his mentor died. Brilliant painter was Severus Snape, his forgeries were almost as good as his apprentice's."  
  
Cold dawned on Harry.  _His mentor is dead?_  So that story last night was a lie. Draco had said the night before that his mentor would have an _ironclad_  alibi. Couldn't get anymore ironclad than dead. Christ, did the blond do anything but lie? "But do you know who's better than an apprentice?" Finnigan continued, unaware of Harry's inner turmoil. "Tell me, you ever heard of Stephen Wiltshire?" When Harry shook his head in the negative, Seamus continued. "Autistic guy, drew pictures of London landmarks when he was ten. Could be photographs they're so detailed." He stopped to see if any of that rang a bell. "No?" Harry shook his head again. "No matter. Three years ago, he took a helicopter ride over New York City. In three days, he replicated New York City in an eighteen foot long drawing, using nothing but graphic pens and an iPod."  
  
As he spoke, Harry mind was conjuring up images. Harry could see Draco leaning down slowly with Emily in his arms, so as not to startle the small boy in the hospital activity room. He saw, in his mind's eye, Draco handing the boy a purple iPod nano, which the boy immediately took and plugged into his ears, but all he could hear in the memory was Hermione talking. Then all of it came rushing in, parts he'd stored in his subconscious that day, which had been drowned out by Hermione talking to him about 'Nathaniel'. All the art supplies, the pictures of artwork and paintings stuck around the room in various places with the logo from The National Gallery and the Musée du Louvre.  
  
 _That's Michael. His parents transferred him here when his leukaemia came out of remission. He's been here for four years now, has a private room and everything. His parents pay for it all. This is his home for all intents and purposes...  
  
Did you know he got his little lady that job? About four years ago.  
  
He was in a school for the gifted before he was transferred here... Drawing and painting is all he does some days... It figured Nathaniel would make a breakthrough without even trying. He's always been lucky like that._  
  
Harry thought about the fact that Draco visited the hospital every two weeks without fail. That, aside from Hermione's Birthday, the last two week mark would have been two days before the attempted robbery.  
  
 _In three days, he replicated New York City in an eighteen foot long drawing using nothing but graphic pens and an iPod.  
  
I am done with the Princess. I got the closure I went to France for._  
  
Harry shut his eyes again, feeling a little bit sick. Draco had never said he  _didn't_  have the drawing. In retrospect, Draco never said much of anything, Harry had inferred it all himself. Breath coming short in his chest, Harry pressed his hand against it. He would say the blond couldn't be capable of it, of using leukaemic, autistic savant children to replicate priceless artwork, but, from experience, he knew Draco was a very good actor.  
  
A con man.  
  
"You see my current options here, Harry?" Harry nodded a little. Either Draco had the real drawing and Seamus was going to get it, or he didn't have it and he wanted his money back. All of it. "So, do you feel up to making a phone call?" When Harry raised his head, he was presented with a mobile phone and a gun to his face.

 

"Are you hurt?"

Harry raised his head. That voice was both a blessing and a curse to him now. He glared for a moment, until he realised there was no point to it. He wasn't getting out of here and his wand was in his bag, which they'd confiscated hours ago. "I'm bruised."  
  
Draco was watching him critically, as if cataloguing every scrape and mark on his face and no doubt under his t shirt. At least they'd taken off his jacket before he'd had a chance to bleed all over it. "I see that. What did they do?"  
  
Harry inclined his head to the side, gesturing to the man on his left. "This guy punched me in the jaw; the other one kicked me in the ribs."   
  
Draco was glaring at the two men. "And the split lip?" he said without removing his gaze.  
  
"Blondie over there."  
  
"Hmm."  
  
Harry couldn't help it. "You're not even from France are you?"  
  
Draco snapped his gaze to him. His eyes softened as they took him in. "I never said I was from France," he said, a bit of puzzlement bleeding into his tone. "I'm from Wiltshire. I grew up in France, though, went to school there. The accent was real, once, if a bit exaggerated, if that's what you're wondering."  
  
"Where is my money?" Seamus said, apparently tired of this ridiculous reunion. Harry didn't mind. He turned away.  
  
Their gaze now broken, Draco turned to Seamus Finnigan, an eyebrow cocked. "I beg your pardon?"  
  
"Where--"  
  
"No, I heard you. I'm not deaf." He rolled his eyes. "What on earth makes you believe that I have any money belonging to you?"  
  
Seamus approached him, angrier than before. "I invested twenty grand on you."  
  
Draco nodded once, following along, and then frowned when Seamus didn't continue. "Yes," he said slowly, "and your investment was used fully on the end product."  
  
Extending his arms, Seamus looked around. "So where is the 'end product'?"  
  
Draco gave him an obvious stare. "It's in the Musée du Louvre."  
  
Seamus picked up his gun from the table. He pointed it at Harry. "Is it."   
  
Draco rolled his eyes. Harry was a little affronted by that. "I'm not Demelza. You can't intimidate me like that." He pointed. "Shoot him if you want, but the safety is still on." Harry was unsure how to take that. He hoped his expression said it all. Draco looked at him. "No offence, love, but how did you manage to get kidnapped by idiots?" Harry glared in response.  
  
Seamus looked down. He tutted, took the safety off and gestured with his head to one of his men. The tall one beside Draco moved forward and took Draco's bag.   
  
"Hey, careful with that!"  
  
Seamus chuckled cruelly. "Why you have something priceless in there?" he said, his voice rough and gravelly.  
  
"My things are in there. So, yes, you can call them priceless."  
  
Seamus rolled his eyes. "Open it." The broad man dug through the clothes and unrolled a leather roll to find a length of tools and picks. He looked up.  
  
Draco gave him an obvious look. "Thief," he said when it seemed the man was looking for an explanation. He crossed his arms indignantly.  
  
The man huffed and put it aside. He paused when he came upon a small roll of what looked like thin paper-like material. Curious, Harry looked his way. Next to him, Harry could see Draco tensing. He frowned and turned to him.  
  
"What is it?" Seamus asked. The thug handed over the roll and Seamus took hold of it, passing his gun to another one of his endless amount of guards. He untied the strip of leather around the two ends and pulled it open. "Oh, Draco, you've been holding out on me."  
  
"It's a copy," Draco said quickly.  
  
"Really? I thought you said the  _end product_  was in the Louvre?" Seamus remarked knowingly. "Truly an artist Malfoy. The art of a good lie, after all, is wrapping some truth around it and a true artist knows how to convince others of the truthfulness of his lies2."  
  
Draco narrowed his eyes. "Do not misquote Picasso to me. It is a copy," he repeated vehemently.  
  
Turning the thin vellum over, Seamus smiled. Draco tensed again when the Irishman looked up at him with knowing eyes. "Well. I have what I want." He gestured to the man with the gun. "Shoot them."  
  
"Before you do, do you mind if I make a phone call?" Draco said out of the blue.  
  
Seamus paused, surprised. "To who?"  
  
Draco's expression turned disapproving. "Whom. My God, does no one teach you how to speak over there?"  
  
Rolling his eyes, the receipt of his original Leonardo da Vinci obviously softening him enough to indulge Draco with his insubordination, he repeated, "To whom, then."  
  
Draco remained silent for a beat. "My father." Harry looked up sharply. Draco seemed unperturbed by the attention. "We were close, I just want to say good bye." Seamus shared an incredulous look with his men. "What, you can't grant a dying wish?"  
  
Seamus seemed cautious. "Your father is dead, Malfoy. You were on the phone with him when McLaggen shot him."  
  
Draco rolled his eyes. "My father is in Wiltshire with my mother in our country mansion. McLaggen has a decidedly terrible sense of direction. He killed our neighbour, did not listen when Mr Nott told him I was not his son. Mother was most upset. She now blames me for the fact that she has no friends, since Theresa Nott no longer wants to speak to her."  
  
Harry's mouth was hanging open. Seamus seemed confused, very confused. "You put it on speaker phone."  
  
Draco took up the mobile handed to him and pressed 'call'. For a surreal moment, Harry watched as Draco cordially asked the man nearest to him how to put it on speaker and thanked him after the man leaned over and actually did it for him with a grunt.  
  
Harry's mind, however, was occupied with replaying the hurt, childlike quality of Draco's " _Papa?_ " in that alley beside the Dutch bar in Westminster. Draco's acting skills were well above par if that reaction wasn't real. He shook his head and turned away, not able to look at him anymore.  
  
" _Yeah, hello?_ "   
  
Shock and disbelief had Harry immediately forgetting his previous thoughts. He turned back, his neck hurting with the movement.  _Ron?_  
  
Draco smiled, his eyes staring at Harry. "Hello, Father. It's me, Draco."  
  
There was a pause on the line. " _Draco? As in..._ Draco." There was a hesitance in his next words. " _My son_?"  
  
Draco laughed nervously. "Yeah, just calling to let you know I'm about to be shot. Tell mother I'm sorry about Theresa."  
  
It took a moment, but then the voice on the line said, " _Is that so?_ "  
  
"Yeah. I'm here with Harry. I know you said the relationship would only cause me problems, I guess you were right, huh? This is the biggest 'I told you so'." There was a shuffle on the line. "Who is that with you?" he asked, knowing that Seamus heard it too. The Irishman had tensed, and the man holding the gun tightened his hand around the gun pointing at Harry's head in warning.  
  
Not even missing a beat, Ron said, " _Don't worry about that, it's your mother going outside to the garden_." A door shut somewhere on the line. " _I'm alone now._ " There was a huff, the breath making the line sound static before it cleared. " _Somehow, I doubt it's Harry causing your problems,_ Draco."  
  
Draco chuckled. "I guess. Just so you know, I did it." Draco's eyes strayed to the drawing in Seamus' hands. His eyes were misty for a moment before he looked away saying, "I achieved my dream."  
  
" _I'm glad to hear that. Maybe that's why I suddenly have a charge to The Dorchester on my credit card, hmm? Maybe now you can give up, come home._ "  
  
Making eye contact with Harry, Draco smirked, but when he laughed it seemed empty. Harry shook his head. He'd lifted Ron's wallet.  _I didn't choose you, you just happened to pay._  Harry scoffed. Draco watched him curiously, but Harry just glared at him. "Well, I don't think I have a choice - what with the gun pointed at my head. The Irish think everything can be solved with a gun."  
  
" _I thought that was the Americans. Tell me you at least gave them hell._ "  
  
Draco nodded indulgently. "Oh yes. Bruised ribs, split lips, broken jaws. You name it, I did it."  
  
Seamus rolled his eyes. "Enough."  
  
Draco nodded quickly. "Hey dad."  
  
" _Yeah,_ kiddo."  
  
Draco smiled slyly. "Tell me the magic words."  
  
There was another pause on the line. " _One second. I've got to compose myself. You know this doesn't happen often._ "  
  
Draco gestured with his hand as if it wasn't of consequence. "Take your time."  
  
" _Oh wow, I'm taking so much pleasure in saying this, but we got you, Malfoy._ "  
  
"That's all I needed to hear. See you in ten."  
  
" _You got it._ "  
  
Draco hung up. "Harry. There is something I've been hiding from you."  
  
Harry cocked an eyebrow. "Oh? Only now?" Christ, this man was unbelievable.  
  
"What the hell is going on?" Seamus said, but it was like he was in another room. Neither man was paying him any attention.  
  
Draco passed the phone back to the man who'd put it on speaker for him. "Afraid so." Waiting for him to continue, Harry spared a look around, everyone seemed to hang off of Draco's words. The room was frozen. It was odd. Harry took a moment, then, to realise that it wasn't from shock. Draco flung out his arm and Harry snapped his gaze to him, his eyes widening when a dark, slim, polished stick of wood, about twelve inches long, followed the momentum of his arm, landing in the palm of his hand. Harry's mouth dropped open.  
  
A wand.

 

The warehouse was frozen but the outside was not, and soon more men came filtering into the room seeking confirmation they could not hear over their radios.

The first one came up behind Draco as he was untying him. Harry, still reeling from the information that Draco was a fucking  _wizard_ , only managed a squeak of warning that had Draco turning and kicking the man in the ribs from his position on the floor. The move was swift and efficient, broadcasting fluent knowledge and practise. Harry had once told him that he would be rubbish at hand to hand combat due to his ridiculous display that had nearly got them killed in a traffic pile up. Draco had simply smiled, pink spots of embarrassment on his cheeks.  
  
Here, there were no wasted turns or steps, just blurred hits punches and kicks made precisely. Coldly. The frozen man who'd held a gun to his face and given him a split lip with it two hours ago was starting to move and Harry's eyes widened as he held up a gun to Draco's back, standing behind Harry and then holding Harry around the throat with his forearm still as he moved the gun to his temple.  
  
Very suddenly, the door to the warehouse sealed itself shut and every man running in froze. In keeping with his deft skill, Draco turned silently, reaching into the back of his jeans and pulled out a gun, shooting the man under his nose. The bullet seared through his head wetly, blood splattering the wall behind him as he fell. The gun at his temple fell, unfired.  
  
 _Right here,_  Harry had told him, his finger pressed to Draco's fulcrum.  _You aim right here. Straight to the back. It severs the brain stem, kills the reflexes._  Draco had watched him with bored eyes.  _Wonderful, very interesting_  Draco had said, his voice uninterested in whatever Harry was telling him and more interested in getting laid.  
  
It went to show, Draco was always interested in what Harry was telling him.   
  
Harry angled his head around, mindful of the room filled with the frozen mob and the countless banging on the doors and shooting at the locks screaming when they still couldn't get in. "You killed him."  
  
Draco's eyes were narrowed as he knelt again to untie the knots around his hands. "He hurt you."  
  
Harry looked ahead, his eyes absently running over the impromptu statues scattered around the floor. "You hurt me."  
  
Draco watched him silently. "Yes," he said, a little remorse creeping into his words. "But I'm allowed to. You're  _my_  bounty hunter. Not theirs. I don't share."  
  
Harry hissed when his hands were free, rubbing at the red marks around his wrists. He may have to call in at St Mungo's for this. Simple healing spells wouldn't do. "You can fight."  
  
"I can," Draco replied. "Plus a little more," he added, mumbling a simple sleeping spell that engulfed the men around them. As one, they fell to the floor. Draco pushed his wand up his jacket sleeve. He likely had a holder there, strapped to the inside or sewn into the seam. He shook his head in wonderment. "You have to understand I couldn't tell you, this secret is not mine to tell. We have laws against it. I'm very sorry, though."  
  
Harry was laughing to himself. He knew the reasons, the laws. He followed them too. "So, all the times I've brought you in?"  
  
"You have never brought me in, Harry." The tone was playful, now, but his eyes were serious when Harry turned to him.   
  
"Almost brought you in."  
  
Draco cocked an eyebrow. "I let you arrest me."  
  
Harry snorted. "Why?"  
  
Draco shrugged. "It was beneficial at the time. It kept you with me, ensured you were safe. You are, with me. Can't guarantee that alone."  
  
Shaking his head, Harry ran his hands through his hair, looking around. Draco was thinking along the lines of Harry being a Muggle. He couldn't say he'd never felt the same way before now. His eyes fell on the drawing on the table next to Seamus' frozen hand. "You are unbelievable." He meant it too. Four years, Draco had been planning this for four years and there was the evidence on the table next to Draco's bag.  
  
"Thank you. You're not so bad yourself." Draco stood and walked over to his bag, stuffing his things back inside.  
  
"You're leaving."  
  
Hefting the strap of his bag over his head, Draco approached him, pulling at the strap until the bag was settled at his back and the strap crossed his chest. "You're going to arrest me if I stay." Harry stayed silent. Draco cocked his head to the side, his hand coming up to cup the side of his face gently. "Harry, you have to arrest me. It's your job, remember?"  
  
Harry huffed, pushing away his hand. "Not anymore. I'm off the case, since yesterday," he explained when Draco looked confused. "Ron fired me in the hospital before you called me."  
  
Draco's brow furrowed as if he didn't understand and then a wave of realisation dawned on his expression. "So..." He stood up straight. A smile slowly taking over. "Well, that changes things, doesn't it, Mr Potter?" Harry frowned, not following. Draco nodded once, the sirens approaching taking his attention for a moment before he turned back. He seemed lighter, happier. "I'll be seeing you around, Harry." He spun in place, suddenly, and disappeared.

 

"I don't suppose you know where he's going after the trial?"

Harry loosened his tie, still reeling from the witness testimony. Five days now the trials had been going on. He'd been present as a witness himself, to testify against Seamus Finnigan on account of his kidnapping and the beat down he'd had to suffer while Draco had taken his sweet time to arrive. His main surprise, however, came from  _Draco Lucius Malfoy Potter_  being 'called to the witness stand'.  
  
He sat there, spilling his story about being hired to steal the drawing years ago, how he'd painstakingly forged one in an attempt to switch them, but never had the chance because the Louvre had sealed down too quickly. He told of how he'd been present when Seamus Finnigan had ordered one of his men to pull the trigger and kill Demelza Robins after she'd given all the information about when it would be shipped and where it would be stored to 'tie up loose ends'. He added to Harry's witness testimony on being kidnapped twice and having to listen on the phone as he spoke to Cormack McLaggen before his father was shot.  
  
The blond looked a bit ill when pictures of his father were shown to the court in the area his body had been dumped. Following Draco on the stand, a myriad of mob members were called in to testify, turning against their leaders for a lessened sentence. Draco had been pardoned due to the wealth of information he kept on them like written correspondence of deals and receipts of money. Since he never kept any of it, but kept every receipt of money he'd donated to charity, the prosecution had written documentation that matched the mob bosses books.  
  
They'd been dismissed after that and sentencing was now three days away.  
  
"Why would he tell me? He ran and then went and got himself arrested anyway." Harry waved to a waitress and ordered a slice of apple pie. Looking out the window he could see an edge of Westminster Abbey.  
  
"You mean, he turned himself in," Ron said obviously, when Harry didn't expand on his morose comment.  
  
Sharp green eyes rose to meet Ron's clear blue. "What?"  
  
Ron frowned. "You didn't know? I thought he would have told you -- being married to him and all." Ron's wry expression made Harry grit his teeth. "Any reason why you haven't annulled that yet?"  
  
Harry looked out the window to the courthouse. "Haven't had a chance to."  
  
"Uh huh," Ron said knowingly and graciously accepted his cup of tea and cheese croissant. "Well he came in agreeing to testify, against two mob bosses at that, if we wiped his slate clean. Wasn't sure there was a way to do all of that, to tell the truth, until Blaise-"   
  
"Blaise?"  
  
Ron gave him a warning glare to not start that up again. " _Blaise_  suggested the Witness Care Unit." He cut his croissant in half. "After all, it's used when a witness feels intimidated and he was on the phone with McLaggen when he killed his father. Apparently he has a daughter too. Go figure. And Seamus found out about you, so who knows what he would have done to a little girl to stop Draco testifying against him murdering Demelza Robins." Ron was silent for a moment, looking at the passing cars. He sipped on his tea. "Blaise quit."  
  
Harry nearly choked on his pie. "What? Why?" He coughed into a napkin, his throat croaky now and laughed. "Maybe he's done waiting for you."  
  
Ron shrugged. "I don't know why. He's been there for nearly four years, one of the best according to anyone who's worked with him. Suddenly, he puts in his letter of resignation. He leaves today."  
  
"Four years ago?" If Harry had a pound for every time he'd heard the phrase 'four years ago', he'd say he didn't believe in coincidences.  
  
Ron, unaware of Harry's thoughts, responded with, "Yeah. Why? Do you think it's me?"  
  
"What? No." No. This was too much of a coincidence. "Where is he? Is he still there?" He stood up. "Tell me he's still here."  
  
Ron was looking at him as though he were a little crazy. Harry tried to tone it down, but knew he'd failed when Ron stuttered, "Er, I don't know."  
  
"Ron, come with me." He took Ron's hand and rounded the table they were sitting at, pulling him out of the cafe and into an alley.  
  
Suddenly realising what was going on, since he'd already had the experience of Harry pulling him into an alleyway once before. Ron began to panic. "Oh god, no. No, I don't want to."  
  
Harry turned beseeching eyes on his best friend. "Please. It's important," he said and took out his wand to cast a  _Muffliato_  on them. He held Ron tight and spun in place. Ron squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the awful squeezing sensation. When he opened his eyes, he was in a bathroom stall. Pulling back and looking around, he realised they were in a bathroom stall at Scotland Yard. Harry was already moving, leaving the bathroom and walking out into the hall.  
  
"We're on my floor," Ron said in wonderment. He would never be able to get used to this. His best friend was a magician. Bloody hell.  
  
Harry turned back, watching him strangely. "I know. I do have a sense of direction, occasionally."  
  
They walked into the open layout of Ron's department. Blaise wasn't at his desk and Ron sighed, walking into his office. They paused to see Blaise there, going through some files.  
  
The dark-skinned man looked up. "Oh, there you are! Where are the transport documents for that Da Vinci drawing? You have to send it out today." Blaise rested his hip against the desk waiting. He glared at Harry in the interim. The brunet was circling him and looking a little suspicious. He didn't like it.  
  
"Why?" Harry asked.  
  
Blaise narrowed his eyes at him. "You don't need to know."  
  
"Blaise," Ron said and Blaise rolled his eyes, huffing. "Your  _husband_  left the original on the table in the warehouse." At Harry shocked expression, he scoffed. "There is a fingerprint on the back that matches one found on another painting by Da Vinci. The Louvre checked and the one hanging there does not have it. They're all quite embarrassed, naturally, and hope this does not reach the press." He crossed his arms over his chest. "We are shipping it back to the Musée du Louvre. However that can't be done until the proper forms are filled out. I put them here three days ago, Ron, where are they?" Blaise was frustrated. "This is my last day. I want everything sorted before I go."  
  
Harry cocked his head to the side. "Why are you quitting?"  
  
Ron was behind his desk now, but he too was interested in hearing the answer. He may have only been there a year and Blaise may not have meant to be a permanent personal assistant, but he was the best he'd ever have. He didn't really want him to go.  
  
"That is none of your business."  
  
Ron straightened, no longer willing to pretend he was searching for forms he didn't remember. "Blaise, come on. It is a bit sudden."  
  
Blaise's eyes went between the two of them. "Just make sure that you have the forms filled out and in triplicate by the end of the day, Ron." He left the office. Harry eyed Ron.  
  
"Suspicious yet?"  
  
Ron nodded. "A little."  
  
Harry stepped aside. "After you?"  
  
Ron walked past him. "After me." In the open space of the department, he looked around. Blaise was gone.   
  
A police officer was walking past and saw Ron looking around. "You looking for Blaise, Ron?" Ron nodded. "He just left with his box of stuff. Went to the bathroom I think. Odd if you ask me."  
  
Exchanging looks, Ron and Harry made a subtle dash for the men's room. Harry got there first. Opening the door, Harry paused, seeing Blaise looking a bit overwhelmed by the fact they'd just charged in to scare him half to death.  
  
Getting over it, Blaise glared at his former pseudo boss. "Ron, I swear, you pull back your friend or I will poke him in the eye with my set square." He rooted around in his box for said weapon and Ron moved forward to forestall him.  
  
Then Harry saw it.  
  
"Nice Remembrall. What do you use it for? Paperweight?"  
  
Blaise froze and stared at him, a stricken look passing over his features. Ron was confused. "What?" His voice was a bit shaky.  
  
"Were you going to Apparate? Did we stop you?"  
  
Ron stepped back from Blaise, frowning at him. Blaise was watching him back. "No! I-" Blaise swallowed around the sudden knot in his throat. "I was waiting."  
  
"Waiting for what?"  
  
"Not what. Who." Harry and Ron spun around to face the stall door opening. Harry was shocked to see Hermione standing there. She stepped outside the stall. "He was waiting for me." She turned to Blaise. "Get in, Blaise." In her hand, she held a coaster. An odd thing for her to be holding in a bathroom. Then he realised.  _Portkey_. It made sense, they were silent and she was trying to leave the main hub of British Policing.  
  
"Wait, what? What the hell's going on?" Ron was looking among the lot of them, not understand a thing.  
  
Eyes rising from the Portkey in her hand, Harry felt he should explain some of this to Ron. "All the times he's got away, needed information on a case, on how close we were to finding him, he got it from Blaise, didn't he?" Harry said. "Seven steps ahead of us, isn't that what you said, Ron? Who did you say suggested Witness protection, a clean slate?"  
  
Hermione surveyed him, taking in his anger. He wasn't angry at her or Blaise, maybe not even at Draco, but he was angry at the situation they found themselves in. That he hadn't seen it before.  
  
"Blaise?" Ron was saying beside him. He sounded far away, betrayed, hoping what Harry said wasn't true.  
  
Blaise was shaking his head. "I'm so sorry, Ron. I'm so sorry."  
  
Draco told me that he chose me for the marriage license because I just happened to pay. That's not true is it? Did Ron really just leave his wallet at the office?" Harry added, on a roll. Ron's mouth dropped open. Blaise was refusing to answer, too upset to speak. "Where are you going to go?" Harry asked Instead. The silence was enough of an answer for him.   
  
Hermione blocked Ron's gaze, shutting the door a little so Blaise was hidden. Harry heard a faint sob from the man and for the first time felt sorry for him. Her hand reached behind her, the hand with the coaster. "Job's done, we're going home." She cocked her head to the side studying him. "You're different from the others."  
  
Harry snorted derisively. "From the others he's lied to? Left in the hands of the mob? Married? You have to be more specific, I'm afraid."  
  
Hermione's smile was knowing. "He always told you the truth. If you go back and remember everything he's said to you, you'll realise that he never actually lied to you." Harry scoffed. "That's why you're different. But I suppose, to you that just because something isn't a lie does not mean that it isn't deceptive. Draco gives out pieces of truth with the intention to deceive. It's a defensive art, truly, and not one without collateral damage 3." She seemed understanding. "Even if he doesn't intend for it to happen." The door shut and Harry moved forward immediately to kick it in.  
  
The door slammed back against the stall wall. The toilet stall was empty.

 

Harry slammed the door of his hotel room shut. This was the fifth one he'd stayed in since he arrived in London four weeks ago. He shook his head. And threw his tie in a corner. Ron had moped for pretty much the rest of the day, complaining that he was definitely due to take his vacation. Harry didn't blame him.

  
He fell back onto his bed. The sentencing hearing was this morning for Seamus Finnigan. Harry was happy the Irishman wasn't getting out of prison anytime soon. He was equally pleased at the sentencing of Cormack McLaggen later in the day. It didn't matter though, he'd only gone because he'd thought Draco would be there. He hadn't been. Sighing heavily, Harry felt his bones sinking into the firm bed beneath him. It certainly didn't feel like four days since he'd seen him. Bloody Draco Malfoy. The blond was tiring that was for sure. He rolled over and sighed tiredly.  
  
Suddenly he was waking up. The lights were still on and his vision was fuzzy after waking up. He sat up, his suit still on and looked around. He sighed. Had he actually expected the blond to be there? Shaking his head, he lay back down, flinging his arm across his face to block out the light.  
  
He frowned. "What the hell?" He felt at his forehead, pushing his hair back and peeled off a... post it note?

 

__

Reading through it, Harry could actually hear that French accent playing through his mind, cursing himself when his mind reminded him that it was fake, a lie like everything else. Despite that, though, Harry still felt a slow sure smile taking over his face.

 

There was no one there. He'd been at his cabin all morning and there was no one there, not even a hint of anyone having been there for years. Harry had even rented a car from the main town. The cabin was a contemporary pet project of his. When he'd met the wooden, one storey, log cabin at eighteen on a hike with his godfather, he knew he had to have it. Over the years, whenever he had a break, he would come here and work on it a bit more until he finished it six years ago. He hadn't been back in two. Taking a deep breath in, Harry let it out again with a sigh. He had missed it here, the quietness of the water. The sound of the world around him out here was so vastly different from anywhere else he had been.

  
Going from room to room, he opened the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the lake on all the floors. He spent the first few hours looking out and the next few cleaning out the rooms, changing the linens and casting cleaning spells to get rid of the dust on the surfaces and under the beds.  
  
When he came to the corner room overlooking the lake on the top floor he paused. It was empty and painted all white. The room was bright with the white paint on the walls, despite the typical autumn day outside. When he opened the sky light above he cursed his mind again for pointing out that the room would make a nice studio. He shook his head and performed the standard spells to clean out the room and left it alone.  
  
He was back by sunset. He hated himself. He'd ordered groceries from the local Tesco online and given in, going to Amazon and ordering a set of art supplies and materials to be delivered the next morning. He dragged an empty trunk up there that Ron's mum had given him once when he was still in school. It was cool looking and he'd taken a liking to it when he was fourteen. He ate his dinner in the room and licked his wounds enough to turn in by nine. Draco was always a good actor.  
  
When he woke up the next morning with a solid weight on his stomach, he smiled before he even opened his eyes.  
  
When he did, it was to see bright grey eyes smiling down at him. He moved his hands to his side, stopping only when he realised they couldn't move. Those eyes began to laugh. He looked up to see his wrists handcuffed to his bed, with his handcuffs from his bag.  
  
"Honestly, Harry. You just don't learn, do you?" He made himself comfortable, lying down between Harry's legs and resting his chin on his folded arms across the brunet's chest.  
  
"Accio wand," Harry said, staring straight ahead at the blond. In seconds his wand smacked into the palm of his hand. The handcuffs dropped with an easy  _Alohomora_.  
  
Draco's smile was resplendent. "Yes, I had heard about you from Blaise." Harry rested his hands beside his head, his wand loosely resting on the sheet. "It would be hypocritical to say you should have told me, wouldn't it?"  
  
Harry cocked an eyebrow looking up at him in warning. "Damn right."  
  
Draco seemed amused. He smiled again. "I love my studio. Just right for all the forgeries I can ever do, isn't it?"  
  
Harry wondered how Draco could have possibly known what room was what. "So you're just claiming rooms in my home? Rude." He couldn't help it though. That Draco even contemplated staying long enough to claim a room as his own -- even for unsavoury habits -- it made him feel warm inside. "How long have you been here?"  
  
"I just got here. Had to stay with the little one, get her settled and sort out a new school, you know how it is. Oh don't look like that. My little girl has to have the best of everything, you know, now that I'm a free man with a new identity -- all legal this time." He reached across to the bedside table and dropped a few items on the bed. "According to the British Justice system I am now called Nathaniel Winsor -- classy," he commented proudly, "but may take some getting used to. I have a new birth certificate, a new passport and a clean slate for the first time in years." Dropping the items to the bed again, he leaned down. "I intend to make the most of it. Now, if you would do your duty as my husband and help me get accustomed to my name by screaming it repeatedly I would be most grateful."  
  
Harry did not feel like giving in so readily. "I'm not married to you though, Nathaniel. I'm married to Draco Lucius Malfoy Potter."  
  
"Are you? That's not what this marriage certificate says." Harry stared at it in disbelief. There was his name signed at the bottom.  
  
He took it and read through it. Once he was done, he huffed, put out. "How is it that I have married you twice now and have yet to be present for either ceremony?" It must have looked comical to Draco, Harry lying down indignant and making demands from his position.  
  
Draco simply shrugged. "I know a JP."  
  
Harry scoffed. "Yeah, you really need to tell me who he is-"  
  
"She."  
  
" _She_  is, because she can seriously help me out in the future."  
  
"What's mine is yours, my love. If you want, we can have a ceremony, invite all your friends. Perhaps I can reunite Blaise with your friend Ron, it might stop all the pining."  
  
"Oh, is it the same on your end then?" Harry said sympathetically. For all the ignorance, Ron was feeling Blaise's absence keenly now, in more ways than one.  
  
"Do not even get me started," Draco said crossly, obviously upset with the way Blaise was behaving. "Even if I hadn't planned to stay, I probably would just to get away from him."  
  
"But you are, right? Going to stay?" It sounded desperate, but he didn't care at this point.   
  
Draco's expression turned fond. "Oh, Harry your absence has driven me crazy." He grinned then and leaned closer. "Now, I believe it's my turn."

 

"You made another copy?"

Draco turned to him and smiled. Harry was walking towards him with a cup of tea in nothing but his boxers. His hair was a complete mess and it did nothing but endear Draco to him further. He nodded, taking the cup and turning back to the drawing he'd hung on the wall of his third floor studio when he arrived. It seemed fitting, his personal Cabin in the Woods, within Harry's dream Cabin in the Woods. A dream within a dream. "I did make another copy, yes." Harry shook his head and left him standing there. Draco watched him go.  
  
"Couldn't let it go, could you?" Harry said over his shoulder as he went down the stairs.  
  
Draco turned back to the hanging vellum backed by a panel of oak. Moving closer, he ran his fingers lightly over the edge, seeing the negative slope of the cross hatching made by an authentic left-handed person, rather than a gifted right-handed child, mimicking the technique beautifully, flawlessly. He took a sip of his tea and stepped back. Five years ago Severus had finally tracked down the  _Portrait of a Young Fiancée_ , but the collector who had bought it -- for a pittance, as far as Severus was concerned -- refused to sell it or let it go in any capacity. Being ill as he was, he could not get it on his own and he point blank ordered Draco not to harm the man, since the blond had been fit to murder him. All their hard work, all those sleepless nights for nothing, he was ready to break Wizarding Law and cast a  _Crucio_  on a Muggle for vengeance alone.   
  
When Severus died, Draco had been inconsolable for a while and by the time Hermione and Blaise talked him off the ledge, the new owner of the drawing, Florian Doorflinger, had gone underground. According to Pansy, a friend of his whom he'd just helped get a job at Charles de Gaulle, she'd seen the middle aged man come from Zurich and head towards the TGV to London. She'd recognised him instantly, since she'd witnessed Draco argue with him more than once. The information had caused Draco to plan methodically. If Florian was in England, Draco needed his contacts in high places, and Astoria, lovely as she was, could not get everywhere without people asking questions, though she did begin to make friends in odd places for him. Blaise had volunteered at Draco's announcement that he was moving, stating he needed a change of pace, since living off his family's money got boring after a while. Hermione, a teacher on maternity leave, was the last to be convinced, disbelieving that anyone would want to hire a pregnant woman so far along. Turned out, a hospital school would. She'd revelled in it, though, since her minor was in Special Education.   
  
After four years of preparing, researching, waiting and doing small jobs for bored rich people to gather revenue, they finally caught a break when one of Astoria's girlfriends, Demelza Robins, mentioned an art exhibit she might like to go to, since she was always so interested in Da Vinci. Going after it on his own would be stupid, since Florian knew him and could pick him out of a line up if the police ever caught him. He had to find someone the police already had trouble catching, someone who no one would want to give up. The mob had been an accident -- a fortunate one, but an accident all the same. Cormack had bought him a drink in a bar and introduced himself as the head of his 'clan' whatever that meant. The evening they'd spent together was lovely, if a little boring. Two days later, when Seamus Finnigan cornered him in Westfield and paid him a large sum of money for his 'expert services' (that he'd heard about from his cousin, Richard Cummington) to get the  _Principessa_ before Cormack got to it, he'd simply smiled and said 'okay' and taken the money. He did not mention once that he was the one who'd convinced Cormack that he needed the drawing in the first place, or that he'd offered to get it for him. Omitting truths was part and parcel of what he did. He tried not to lie to the important people, like his best friends and his family. Harry was now a part of that. Strange, since he'd not lied to the brunet since he met him. Perhaps it was fate.  
  
"No." His voice was soft, proud and content. "I'm afraid I couldn't let her go, Harry." He stood at the entrance of his studio again. "This one is for you, Severus," he said fondly and turned off the light, closing his studio door.  
  
And if Harry never asked him about the disappearance of his trusted navy blue duffel bag, he never had to lie about it, did he? He could just say. "It's hanging up in my studio."

~Fin~

**1**  Originally: "Her words were like tinfoil; they shone and they covered things up." Helen Cross,  _My Summer of Love_    
 **2**  Originally: "We all know that Art is not truth. Art is a lie that makes us realize truth, at least the truth that is given us to understand. The artist must know the manner whereby to convince others of the truthfulness of his lies." Pablo Picasso  
 **3**  Originally "Just because something isn't a lie does not mean that it isn't deceptive. A liar knows that he is a liar, but one who speaks mere portions of truth in order to deceive is a craftsman of destruction." said by Criss Jami, lead singer of Venus in Arms. I highly recommend his poetry. Simply wonderful.

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:
> 
> French: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/9516909/1/La-Bella-Principessa  
> Spanish: TBA  
> Russian: TBA


End file.
